


No Thorns Go As Deep As a Rose's

by nonisland



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Chapter 15: Valley of Torment, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, FE3H Kinkmeme, First Time, Full Recruitment Golden Deer Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Golden Deer Family, Happy Ending, Internalized Toxic Masculinity, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pining During Sex, Repression, Rivals to Lovers, Sex Pollen, Sexually Explicit Character Study, Slight Espionage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 16:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30108609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonisland/pseuds/nonisland
Summary: Claude looks back the way they’d come, then at Lorenz again, and tips his head back in despair. “You breathed it in, didn’t you.”“I take it this is poisonous.” Lorenz feels…well enough, mostly. His heart is beating faster, though that could just be apprehension; the air seems warmer than it had before. The scent of cloves is already fading. “Lethal?”Claude actually laughs, though without much amusement. “No. It’s, uh, it’s called…a bunch of things. Rose of Bassarid?”Lorenz shakes his head. It is more than just apprehension driving his pulse now, sending a feverish tingling through his veins. Of all horrible times—it must be the fear of whatever is to come that has his attention lingering on the column of Claude’s throat, half-hidden by his collar and a carelessly-tied neckcloth. He disciplines his attention, ruthlessly. This is not lethal, therefore he will endure it; since it is not lethal, he has no need for any final—whimsy.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 15
Kudos: 65
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	No Thorns Go As Deep As a Rose's

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to take a quick break from a massive other project to write this *checks notes*…short…kinkmeme fill…which ended up taking two and a half months to write…
> 
> Written for the [](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**3houseskinkmeme**](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/) [prompt](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2082.html?thread=3550498#cmt3550498), trimmed a bit for length, “Claurenz, sex pollen. Roses are Lorenz’s thing and I just want to see him sex pollened by one. […] Can be pre or post ts but I’d like them to be at the height of their rivalry. +++Lorenz being so angry and mortified and scared (it’s his first time) and ashamed that he can’t stop what’s happening. I’d love if Claude was actually sweet to him. Like Lorenz expects teasing and mockery but Claude soothes him and makes his first time so good. […]”
> 
> Enormous gratitude to Scott for getting me unstuck in the middle several times; to Ember, who still does not even go here, for brainstorming sex pollen effects with me and for additional assorted help as I wrestled the damn thing along; and to both of them for looking the finished product over. Any errors that remain are entirely mine. Thanks also to K. and A., who may or may not wish to be publicly affiliated with this fic but who still helped by refusing to let me give up on it.
> 
> Title is from Algernon Charles Swinburne’s “[Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45283/dolores-notre-dame-des-sept-douleurs)”: _No thorns go as deep as a rose’s, / And love is more cruel than lust._
> 
> * * *

It has been some years since it had last fallen to Lorenz to keep a watchful eye on Claude. At some point, Lorenz is sure, he had mastered the skill of observing dispassionately, without regard for anything but the needs of Gloucester and of Leicester as a whole, but it seems to be a skill which, like any other, rusts with disuse.

As his father has pointed out, part of the danger Claude poses is his ability to make anything seem plausible; he has an orator’s charm without an orator’s discipline, and uses that charisma in service of the Riegan fecklessness. The combination is ruinous.

Lorenz, watching Claude sort through the letters that had come with the latest courier across the border, cannot help but agree. That same single lock of Claude’s hair once again tumbles, undisciplined, across his brow. Surely it should be long enough to tuck securely behind his ear. The beard, too, shows a, a lack of regard for convention. Propriety. It curves all along his jaw, trimmed short enough to suggest it is mere carelessness: that he has simply neglected to shave, and that the beard is no more than a thickening of stubble. Claude’s fingers rest against it as he turns over the letter he’s reading with his free hand.

“Were you coming in, or did you plan to just stare at me all day?” he asks, not looking up. “Because I have to tell you, Lorenz, that’s a little creepy.”

“I am not _staring at you_ ,” Lorenz says, horrified. “I’m simply…” Simply what? His mind spins between options, caught wretchedly off-guard, and lands with relief on the papers Claude is studying, and the ledger with its familiar five-ruled spread open next to him. “Those are not personal letters. Is that Alliance business?”

“Hoped to find me neglecting it?” Claude finally does look up, one eyebrow raised. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Lorenz—Lorenz is not sure that _disappointed_ sums up the uneasy swirl of emotion tangling below his sternum. “I would not say I _hoped_ to find you neglecting it,” he says, drawing himself up straighter. “I would never wish Leicester ill in such a way. My concern has always been—”

“At the moment _my_ concern is the Adrestian border,” Claude says. “If you’re going to stay, then you can help me sort through these reports from along the Airmid.”

“You have spies in Gloucester?” Lorenz asks. It feels much safer to protest Claude’s spies than to think about Claude listening to the objections he’s raised, again and again, to taking any overt action against Adrestia when their forces threaten Gloucester at every minute.

His father had been reluctant to let him return to Garreg Mach at all, and only allowed it when Lorenz reminded him that they must surely keep informed of the details of Claude’s allying with the Church of Seiros. That had been even before Professor Byleth returned from apparent death to join them. It has worked out for the best. Even Lorenz’s father has made no further warning protests since learning everything that’s happening. Well—not everything, of course. It would hardly be suitable to inform him of all the details of their plans.

It might, perhaps, be unfair of Lorenz to object to Claude’s spies in Gloucester, when he himself is relaying some carefully-curated information back there. But it is not as if anyone is unaware that he has always had obligations to his own county, or as if he has ever made any secret of his suspicion of Claude. Leonie calls it _weird_ ; Hilda finds it amusing in a way that makes Lorenz feel strangely—uncomfortable. He would not go so far as to say _exposed_. There is nothing to expose.

“Spies?” Claude says, looking wounded. It is clearly a trick. His eyes go very wide, their green finally unshadowed by his lashes, and there is the barest quiver to his lower lip. Lorenz finds himself furiously aware that knowing it is a trick and not being tricked are not the same thing at all. “That’s awfully harsh. I just like to know what people are saying.”

“And what are they saying?” Lorenz asks. He will not be deterred by the, the eyes and the sad mouth.

Something flickers across Claude’s face and is gone. “About the same as you’ve been saying. The Weathervane is cooperating with the Empire—” Lorenz curls his lip, and Claude laughs a rueful acknowledgement before continuing, “but not to the extent of allowing a full cohort or even a full century through. Still, they’ve caused enough trouble on the north side of the Airmid that it’s clear they have passage.”

“Trouble?” Lorenz asks sharply.

“An uptick in attacks blamed on bandits, some sightings of demonic beasts—”

The thought spurs Lorenz’s heart into a gallop. “In _Gloucester_?”

“…Yes,” Claude says slowly, with a frown. “Didn’t you know? Demonic beasts are pretty hard to keep secret.”

“It must be a recent development,” Lorenz says, and then realizes the import of his words. “Since I came here, do you think? Perhaps this is the beginning of the Adrestian retaliation. I should—”

Claude shakes his head. “It’s been going on for moons now.”

“It can’t be.” Lorenz curls his hands tightly at his sides. “You must be mistaken. I…I would have heard something of it.” Though of course it would explain why his father had been so certain that Adrestia _would_ retaliate, if Lorenz took any more direct action against them. He wishes his father had told him, instead of trying to spare him the knowledge. He would have—surely he would have stayed home. Surely he would have allowed Claude to get up to whatever Claude intends to get up to without his deterring presence.

“Well, I’m going to let Teach know about the latest,” Claude says, rising from his chair in a single motion graceful as flame. “So if I am _mistaken_ , as you put it, you’ll have good company in being mad at me.”

He’s gone before Lorenz can put together a rejoinder.

* * *

Professor Byleth takes the reports seriously, of course. Lorenz had not… He should, perhaps, have apologized to Claude, but the problem had been how Claude had taken what he said. It had not been meant as a slight against Claude’s honesty (not that Lorenz possesses any illusions about Claude’s honesty), or even his intelligence network. Still. If he had any belief at all that Claude would accept his apology, instead of making a joke of it as he had the last time Lorenz had felt compelled to make one…

Well. He doesn’t. It is as simple as that.

“There’s a lot of unrest along the Airmid,” Professor Byleth tells them all a few days later. “Ferdinand, Lysithea, and I will be crossing into Hrym. Claude?”

“Teach and I figure someone ought to go check on the reports of demonic beasts,” Claude says easily, leaning back in his chair as if he has never feared gravity. “See if we can figure out what exactly the Adrestian forces are up to and why they’re doing it on our side of the river.”

Lorenz’s teeth are not gritted as he says, “And bandits.”

“Sorry?” Claude asks.

“And bandits,” Lorenz says again, louder. “Any reports of excessive bandit activity in the region should also be looked into. Most especially so if they are, as you said you suspected, another act of Imperial aggression.”

Lysithea nods sharply. “That sounds like them.” She has an incredibly astute mind. Her agreement is heartening. It is not that Lorenz had doubted himself, but knowing Lysithea agrees with his inferences is more reassuring than it should be. It is all the more so because he knows that Claude listens to _Lysithea_ , at least, for all that he pretends he doesn’t.

“Gosh,” Hilda says, inspecting her manicure, “I thought having to worry about Fódlan’s Locket was hard, but it sounds _so_ much worse having to take care of a border where you don’t even have a fortress to do that worrying about!”

They all turn to look at her, some of them a little more slowly than others, except for Linhardt, who has, ugh, fallen asleep in his chair. Hilda blinks innocently back.

“Right,” Claude says, and then looks at Lorenz and stops with whatever he was about to say still unspoken.

It is not as if they are unaware of Gloucester’s precarious position, or of Lorenz’s opinion of that. It is not as if Lorenz has any right to object, when he has himself admitted to Professor Byleth that he is here to keep a watchful eye on Claude. It is not—he does not—he resents that sudden silence. Resentment is a sharp twist in his chest, a foolish urge to get up and leave. It is not as if Lorenz cares for their good opinion, especially Claude’s.

Of course Claude and Professor Byleth have designs on the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Of course Acheron von Myrddin’s freewheeling treachery must be dealt with, more permanently now that he has decided to ally himself with a foreign power in the middle of a war.

Of course they will not tell Lorenz. He wonders when they _will_ feel safe mentioning it. Perhaps only as the bridge comes in sight of their approaching army. He will not ask about their destination, and thus spare them the embarrassment of lying about their route. As if he could be as unfamiliar with the most rudimentary standards of geography as they must assume he is about the sort of basic tactics Hilda has just referenced, in her characteristically whimsical way.

He wonders whether his presumed ignorance amuses them.

“The bandit activity in Hrym has been atypical as well,” Ferdinand offers. His brow is creased with worry. “The threat to my father aside, this should not be happening.”

It is hardly the time for it now, with Duke Aegir in peril, but Lorenz makes a mental note to meet with Ferdinand after his return to discuss conditions in Hrym and along the Leicester border of Adrestia, to see if some underlying economic cause might be at fault. If so, then it can be remedied, either now through aid or as an urgent priority if and when they strike into Adrestia. He still has a small supply of good Seiros tea, which will bolster their energy and their spirits both as they sort through whatever taxation and agricultural reports Ferdinand is able to gain access to.

“Good point,” Claude says. “Anyway, that’s two groups—Teach for the daring mission deep into enemy territory, and me for the boring, safe option.”

“I’ll stay here!” Bernadetta says immediately. “Someone has to guard the monastery while you’re all out running around, right?”

Professor Byleth nods. “Volunteers only, for both. Claude’s plan isn’t completely safe either.”

“Well, I’d be happy to help,” Mercedes says. “Count me in as a volunteer!”

Lorenz folds his hands together in front of him and says, “Naturally I will be accompanying Claude.”

Claude sighs. Mercedes continues sweetly, “I’d love to go with you, Professor. My family was originally from Adrestia, so I think I’d be a big help if you need to try to fit in.”

Professor Byleth nods again, this time conveying a certain dry amusement with the gesture.

Before Claude can protest as well, Lorenz says, “I have at least as much familiarity with Gloucester and even Myrddin lands as…” _von Martritz_ , hm. Even though she is a commoner, her family must have some connection to the barony, to still use the noble _von_. Martritz lies just east of Hevring in west-central Adrestia; the counties of Varley and Bergliez, the duchy of Aegir, the old imperial lands of Hresvelg, and assorted other baronies lie between it and Hrym. “As Mercedes does with southeast Adrestia. My assistance will be invaluable.”

“I’m sure it will be,” Mercedes says faintly.

“It’ll be something, all right,” Claude says. “Marianne, you’ll come with us, won’t you? I can’t let Teach get away with _all_ the healers.” Astonishingly, that seems…to be all?

“Oh! I…” Marianne looks around uncertainly. “Do you really think it would be safe to bring me? I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“It’ll be fine,” Leonie says. “They’ll be much better off with you there than somewhere else.”

Marianne ducks her head, looking pleased. It is a heartwarming sight.

“Can I go with you, Professor?” Leonie asks. She hates letting Professor Byleth go into danger without her: something about a promise she had made to her Captain Jeralt. _Her_ response is, at least, not personal.

Professor Byleth gives a thoughtful little _hm_ , shifting counters across the map. “You’d be better with Claude’s group.”

“I’ll go with them too,” Balthus says. “I’ve gotten into enough trouble in that part of the country to have a pretty good idea of how to get back out of it.”

Hilda bites her lip, heedless of the glossy paint she darkens them with.

“That seems like a good number,” Claude says, leaning forward to look at Professor Byleth’s map. “Pretty good distribution of skills, too. You can have your pick of the rest, Teach.”

“I have _very_ important work to do here at the monastery,” Hilda says firmly, all indecision gone. “I’m afraid I just won’t be able to go with you.”

“Good of you to volunteer to practice your lance work,” Professor Byleth says, not looking up from the array of counters. “And help Cyril with the wyverns, _and_ the pegasi and horses as well.”

Hilda opens and closes her mouth, clearly trapped. Lorenz feels a secret guilty relief that he will not be present to have her somehow coax him into helping her with her share of the chores, when he strongly dislikes the more, ah, pungent aspects of stable duty at least as much as she does. Still, there is no denying that it is an unpleasant task for a lady, and her sensibilities should be treated with courtesy.

Professor Byleth starts moving counters into Adrestia, each landing on the map-covered table with a sharp click. “Shamir, Felix, Dorothea, Raphael, Constance, Ingrid, and…Linhardt.”

“What?” Linhardt says, snapping awake. “No, certainly not.”

“I’ll go!” Annette says. “If you’re looking for another mage I’ll do my best to help.”

“Then Hapi,” Professor Byleth says. “I want someone who can Warp if needed.”

Annette droops, but nods. Hapi lifts her shoulders in a broad shrug. “If you say so, Chatterbox,” she says.

“Good.” Professor Byleth glances around the table. “Everyone, pack. We’re leaving before noon.”

* * *

As they ready themselves to leave, Balthus, an unreasonably large man by any standard, stares at the chestnut gelding provided for him. The chestnut does not stare back, but Lorenz suspects it would, if horses were given to the same means of expression as humans.

“Oh dear,” Marianne says, and then covers her mouth with her hands.

Claude glances at Lorenz with a spark of laughter in his eyes. His wyvern is waiting in the yard, but here he is, leaning against an empty stall at a wholly indecent angle and watching the rest of them work. Lorenz wonders again just how often _he_ , Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, has been the subject of such mockery, whether in his absence or behind his turned back. He looks away sharply.

“It’s not that bad,” Leonie says, voice cool as aloe on a burn. For a moment Lorenz thinks she’s speaking to him, but no; she is looking at Balthus and the chestnut.

“Oh, I know.” Balthus grins. “I was just a little shorter last time I rode one of these.” The chestnut is a sizable and solid creature, possibly with draft horse blood in it, but Lorenz can understand the hesitation.

Leonie looks away from Balthus to Lorenz, who is hesitating in front of Thunder’s stall. “Can’t you pick a less flashy horse for once?”

“He is hardly ‘flashy,’” Lorenz says, unlatching the stall door. “And he was a gift from my father. It would be ungrateful as well as wasteful to leave a purebred Nalbin stallion standing around.” He had not, specifically, requested a stallion, but the Nalbin horses of eastern Leicester are magnificent as well as expensive, and it had been a touching show of faith in his equestrian abilities. The value of the gift, less monetary than otherwise, is enough to endear Thunder to him.

“He is a shiny black horse with a very pretty white streak down his face,” Leonie says with an impatient gesture, “and it’s a little early for mares to be in season but if we run across one who is, there goes the ‘stealth’ in our five-person stealth mission.”

Lorenz grits his teeth, but that does nothing to stop the scalding rush of blood up his face. This is hardly a suitable topic for mixed company. “It is the Pegasus Moon,” he says, keeping his voice level so as not to alarm Thunder as he sorts out the tack. “Even in southernmost Leicester, that is hardly a problem we are likely to encounter.”

Shaking her head, Leonie goes to saddle the grey mare she usually rides into battle.

“What does Count Gloucester expect you to do in spring?” Claude asks, sounding genuinely curious. There is still no real reason for him to even be in the stables, except to cause trouble for Lorenz.

“The same thing any rider does in spring,” Lorenz says. “Control the horse.” He hardly enjoys the struggle, but it certainly does build character and discipline. He is grateful for the opportunity.

Marianne says quietly, “That doesn’t seem very kind.” The mount she has selected is not the one she calls Dorte, but a lovely palomino mare, suited to her gentle elegance.

“Kind?” Lorenz asks, baffled.

Marianne nods.

What a strange idea. Lorenz doesn’t even know what to say to it. It may not be kind to the stallion, but it must be less cruel than riding one into battle. If he says that to Marianne, though, she will be stricken with remorse over mounted combat again, and then Professor Byleth will deliver another lecture, and…best not to get into it at all.

“Well, I’m ready to walk if we have to,” Balthus says.

Claude pushes himself off the stall door and goes to check over Balthus’s tack, finally deciding to make himself useful. It is past time. “Hopefully we won’t have to,” he says, “but you’re looking good over here.”

Lorenz swallows down the urge to object to Claude’s wording. It is hardly his concern.

Thunder shifts restlessly, picking up on his mood, and Lorenz murmurs a few soothingly meaningless sounds and leads him out into the yard. The others follow, and finally, finally, they are off.

* * *

The trip down the Airmid is less unpleasant than Lorenz had expected. It is hardly congenial, but he would not have expected that of a group containing such unsuitable company, other than Marianne.

Once Balthus gets comfortable on horseback, he and Leonie spend most of the first day of the trip trading improbable stories of their adventures. Claude joins them, keeping his wyvern flying well below the tree line and therefore low enough for conversation, though he remains suspiciously guarded on the subject of his origins and confines himself to tales from the last six years.

Some hours in, rather out of desperation, Lorenz starts telling Marianne about some of the flowers and other plants that grow in the area; the margraviate of Edmund is much further north, with woods that flood violet in spring with bluebells. It interests her, and when the conversation turns to birds, that draws Leonie’s attention as well.

By the time they make camp for the night, about two hours into the county of Gloucester, Lorenz is feeling slightly less—oh, something foolish. It is not as if he _needs_ to be part of a vulgarly cheerful exchange, after all. The evening is cold but not punishingly so, and the fire makes a pleasant warmth. The air is clear, and dry enough that the only real need for their tents they have is to serve as a windbreak.

There is no sign of bandits or of demonic beasts as they head deeper into Gloucester. The evergreens remain: mostly pine and the twisting spires of juniper, though here and there an unusually bold holm oak can be spotted. There are fewer of the leaf-dropping trees turned skeletal in winter, which leaves the woodland denser, less barren despite the season and the wind.

“Goodness,” Marianne says softly. “It’s so…green.” She says it as if she means it as a compliment, and Lorenz is happy to take it as such, though he would love to hear more from her, both as his friend and as Margrave Edmund’s daughter.

“It’s not nearly so green in Sauin Village.” Leonie cranes her neck, taking in the towering height of a particularly stately pine. “We get more snow than it looks like they do down here, too.”

Balthus, too, is looking up at the pines, though without quite as much equestrian skill as Leonie. Lorenz eyes Balthus’s gelding and decides it is muddling along without needing his intervention. They are hardly moving fast enough for this to be a danger, as Balthus says thoughtfully, “I could swear the trees were shorter last time I was here.”

“Any forest or woodland looks more vast in winter.” Lorenz likes the clean quiet of these woodlands in the waning year, all their warm greys and tawny browns and cool greens, but there is something to be said for the pen-and-ink elegance of the woods around Garreg Mach too.

“And no snow?” Balthus shakes his head. “That’s just weird.”

“It snows sometimes,” Lorenz says. “Not as much in Myrddin, as far as I know, unless the circumstances are exceptional, but there are very few parts of Gloucester that get no snow at all. It is hardly as if we are in southern Adrestia here. This _is_ still the Leicester Alliance.” The words sound hollow in light of their mission, and he forces a laugh.

Claude says, “Fascinating as this is, don’t you think we’d better keep moving? I thought you were worried about the bandits, Lorenz.”

It would be foolish to feel stung. Doubtless Claude is accustomed to whatever frozen-over dullness the forests of the duchy of Riegan are locked in over winter, and cannot appreciate a milder southern woodland. He is, furthermore, unfortunately, correct; they do need to keep moving.

Still, that is no excuse for rudeness. “ _I_ am perfectly capable of riding my horse and carrying on a pleasant conversation at the same time.” Lorenz sweeps a cutting look over Claude, balancing effortlessly on his wyvern’s back. His hands are loose on the reins, but not lax; his posture looks careless, but the muscles of his thighs flex— “If you cannot do the same,” Lorenz says, realizing he needs to modulate his voice and doing so, “at least do the rest of us the courtesy of permitting us to converse without interruption.”

Claude raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

Lorenz returns his attention to the road as they pick up the pace. They venture further south and pass out of Gloucester territory, still without incident, or at least without combat. The second night is hardly worse than cool; Acheron’s lands, as well as being the southernmost in Leicester, border Lake Airmid. Lorenz had _known_ that, but he hardly makes a habit of visiting the Weathervane socially, and it is a very different thing to ride out of Garreg Mach in the Pegasus Moon and enter early spring without ever crossing into Adrestia.

The plants are different too, the holm oaks a little smaller and the shrubbery changing. Winter makes it hard to identify bushes, even though Lorenz should know many of these from Gloucester, but Myrddin exports fragrant herbs; some of these are likely the wild cousins of sage and tarragon, lavender and rosemary. Daffodils he recognizes, though seeing them bloom this early is odd. Others he has no idea about: an ivy of some kind that twines around the holm oaks, but only them; a variety of juniper with silvery needles, as if dusted by frost that no other plant has felt; tiny blue flowers like clusters of fallen stars, which remind him of squills except for their upturned heads.

Those starry blue flowers in particular fascinate him. There must be a metaphor in their attitude somewhere, which he could tease out with the time and the inclination. Still, he has no more need to write about flowers gazing up to the sky than he does about the territory of Myrddin, so he sets the idea aside.

As they approach the Great Bridge of Myrddin, they pull back from the road.

“I’ll go ahead,” Claude says quietly, landing his wyvern and climbing off its back. “Leonie, come with me. Lorenz, Marianne, Balthus, you wait here with the animals.”

Leonie swings down from her grey, patting the mare’s shoulder as she hands the reins to Marianne. The grey, a remarkably sensible creature, seems entirely unfazed, accepting the transfer with barely a twitch of her ears. Claude’s wyvern, fortunately, needs no such supervision. Lorenz has a tiring enough time with Thunder; he hardly needs to be testing his will against a flying reptile.

It seems like a very long time before Claude and Leonie return, though it can hardly have been more than ten or fifteen minutes. Claude looks grim, and Leonie…angry? Frustrated? Lorenz can hardly tell at this distance.

Once they’re close enough for quiet conversation, Claude says, “There are tracks headed east from the bridge along the river—maybe half a dozen, a dozen, something like that.”

“How many times does Acheron have to do something like this before you _do_ something about it?” Leonie demands.

“My father—” Lorenz begins.

Leonie shakes her head. “This isn’t about attacking the Empire—this is about Acheron helping the Empire attack the rest of us. Or does your father not care about the actual people of the Leicester Alliance at all, as long as they’re not _his_ people?”

Lorenz thinks about what Claude had said, about the attacks heading in both directions away from the bridge, into Gloucester as well as Myrddin and most likely Kimarc. Thunder shifts restlessly under him, and he realizes he must have tensed badly. He wants to say something extremely cutting to Leonie; he knows exactly what that thing should be, a reminder that it is not her place to criticize her liege lord. The words turn to ash on his tongue, and he swallows them bitterly down. “There are certain difficulties,” he says.

“We couldn’t actually prove he’s doing it on purpose, for one,” Claude says. He stands with one hand on his wyvern’s shoulder, almost as if reaching out to it for comfort. Belying the lightness of his voice, his fingers are taut against its gleaming scales; the tendons stand out on the backs of his hands. Lorenz looks back at Leonie, who is still frowning but less prickly about it now, as Claude continues. “You’d be surprised how many people are just that bad at administering their territories.”

“It is a _bridge_ ,” Lorenz says, turning his attention to Marianne, who has yet to contribute to the argument. She looks pale and sorrowful, but neither angry nor as if she wishes to speak. Very well. “How hard can it be to put guards on a bridge? Anyone too incompetent to think of such a thing should be replaced by a regent regardless.”

“ _Well_.” There is such sudden smugness in Claude’s voice that Lorenz looks back at him involuntarily, to find his mouth curled in a wicked smile that—that certainly has no place in a meeting among Duke Riegan and the heirs to Count Gloucester and Margrave Edmund, as well as Leonie and Balthus. “There are guards there now. It would be a real shame for Lord Acheron if someone were able to verify that they’re his.”

That is a clever idea, though it also has a flaw. Lorenz feels less triumphant than he should as he says, “He could always claim he had sent them after the latest incident, unless another follows.”

“Another _will_ follow,” Leonie says. “I don’t think even the professor is going to be able to clear up everything happening on the other side of the river in one go.”

She has a point as well. Lorenz nods thoughtfully.

“Well, you’re not going to want _me_ as your witness,” Balthus says with a laugh, “but I’m good to go with whoever does and keep an eye on them, after we deal with whoever came over this time. You only found the tracks going one way, right?”

Leonie nods.

“Then let’s head out,” Balthus says.

“Oh good,” Claude says, “if you’re in charge now, _you_ can do the report Teach is going to want.”

“No way.”

Claude gives Balthus another of those sharp-edged smiles, and Lorenz nudges Thunder into motion with barely a thought, or not even a thought. Enough of this…ridiculous bickering.

* * *

It is afternoon by the time they locate the invaders, gathered by the lakeside in the southern spar of Myrddin territory. The lower of Leonie’s estimates of their numbers was correct, but two of them are mages, and they summon a variety of demonic beasts. Combat is eventful, but not shocking; none of them are injured too badly to keep fighting, and they vanquish the enemy.

“Good work, everyone,” Claude says, as Marianne rests her hands on Balthus’s arm and a long gash from shoulder to forearm seals beneath her touch. “Who else is hurt?”

Lorenz’s leg feels very peculiar after a blast of Miasma, but the idea of removing his trousers to verify the extent of the damage in front—in this company is appalling. It bends all right, and with both the spell completed and the mage dead it is unlikely to do further damage. It should heal on its own.

Leonie, testing the movement of her shoulder, says, “Lorenz.”

He glares at her. “I am uninjured.”

“You almost fell off your horse.” Leonie dismounts, less smoothly than Lorenz is used to. “I think I pulled something taking that wolf down—do you mind?”

“Of course I don’t,” Marianne says. She cups Leonie’s shoulder with one hand; nothing changes visibly, except that Leonie’s posture eases. “Lorenz?”

“Really,” Lorenz says, ignoring the prickling sense of discomfort from his thigh on down, “there is nothing to worry about.” He is hardly willing to have her waste magic on what might be nothing of concern, when they still have to make it at least a day and a half’s ride before they can be reasonably sure that they are back to safety.

“Lorenz,” Claude says.

Balthus looks up from his torn sleeve. “Listen, pal, if Claude tells me to hold you down so Marianne can heal you, I’ll do it. It’s a long ride back to Garreg Mach, and all of us need to be in one piece.”

Lorenz feels a thrill of—fear, quickly supplanted by indignation. “You will do no such thing.” He wishes he were confident of that, but a wary glance around shows that Claude is at his most smugly enigmatic, with that _infuriating_ half-lidded half-smile that never fails to get a reaction, and Leonie is looking alarmingly thoughtful. It is entirely reasonable to take precautions to avoid the, the insult to his dignity that Balthus has proposed, especially since his leg is _not_ at its absolute best. “Very well, if you all insist. Marianne?”

“Hold still,” Marianne says softly, crossing to stand beside Lorenz. Thunder is completely undisturbed by her approach; she has a gift with animals which Lorenz admits he’s grateful for at this moment, beyond his usual admiration of it. The thought of dismounting is not a pleasant one.

Her hand is warm on his thigh, just above the knee. The residue of Miasma alternates hot and cold like fever chills and leaves the damaged skin stinging beneath a viscous creeping sensation. With the mage dead, it is not a danger, but…well. Marianne’s Heal is warm, steady, and clean, easing the pain and washing away the feeling that something is still oozing across his skin. “Thank you,” he says.

“Of course,” Marianne says. She doesn’t quite look up at him and smile, but she glances up, and she smiles just a hairsbreadth, as entirely separate actions. From Marianne, that is as good as a full-fledged beam from anyone else.

“Right,” Claude says. “Now that everyone’s healed up, here’s the plan. Leonie, do you think you can come up with a good reason to be crossing over into Bergliez?”

Leonie swings back onto her mare, much more fluidly than she’d dismounted. “Do I have to actually get across, or just try? And do the guards have to believe that I actually have a reason?”

Claude’s mouth twists in thought. The gesture sharpens his cheekbones and the hollows under them, in spite of the thickening stubble that he has made only a token effort to deal with during their daily ablutions. Being on the road is no excuse for failure to attend to the details of one’s appearance. “No and yes, in that order,” he says finally. “It needs to seem legitimate, which is why I can’t go with you and neither can Lorenz.”

“Wait one moment,” Lorenz says. “You do not tell me—”

Claude fixes him with a steady look. “You’re Count Gloucester’s heir and you’ve sat at every Roundtable meeting since I got here. Gloucester is the only one of the Five Great Houses to border Myrddin, which means that the responsibility of guarding the bridge is going to fall on you if it’s decided that Acheron has abdicated it.” It is always…disconcerting when Claude displays his political acumen.

“We would never _plot_ such a thing,” Lorenz says. He has no need of, nor taste for, such underhanded tactics. He only wants Acheron to live up to his responsibilities as a lord of the Leicester Alliance.

“ _You_ wouldn’t,” Claude says. The expression on his face is…strange, almost mocking but somehow softer. Lorenz isn’t sure what to call it. “But some people have nasty suspicious minds, and you are conspicuous.”

Lorenz enjoys his enameled armor, and had not seen any need to exchange it for the frankly ominous spikes of a dark knight’s uniform when he passed his certification. Still, there is no need for Claude’s _tone_. “I merely choose to honor my noble house with my attire.”

“Right, so neither of us can go. Balthus, Marianne, I’d rather not send Leonie in without backup.”

Balthus asks, “Isn’t Marianne a noble too?”

“The margraviate of Edmund is located on the north coast,” Lorenz says, relieved to finally have something that he can explain. “She can have very little possible interest in the affairs of the southern houses, and her absence from the meeting to discuss this would not be remarked on as mine would.”

Claude nods instead of arguing or making a correction. “Marianne, if you go, I think you should stay back a little just in case, but it’s not like most people will recognize you on sight.” Marianne bows her head. “Leonie and I found some signs that they’ve been patrolling a little, though what they’re looking for I don’t know, so we’ll set a rendezvous point for this evening. Lorenz and I—and Marianne if you don’t want to go with the other two—will wait there.”

Marianne glances from Leonie to Claude. “I’m not sure it would be safe…”

“Go with them,” Claude says. “I’d feel better sending a mage just in case things go south, and especially a healer.”

“Definitely.” Leonie smiles encouragingly. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“All right…” Marianne turns back to her palomino and climbs onto the mare’s back, not gracefully but with confidence all the same. “I’ll go with you. I hope nothing happens to you…”

“Nothing is going to happen to us.” Leonie’s voice is very firm, but still kind.

Balthus remounts as well, and the five of them set off westward again. Claude says, “So what kind of unlikely stories did you have in mind, Leonie?”

“Oh…” Leonie pauses for a moment, considering. She is a skilled enough horsewoman that the way she looks up and away from the road makes no difference to the grey, who continues along without regard for her rider’s whims. “Following a rare bird, or some kind of animal. They’d know they hadn’t seen any such thing, though. Had a meeting with someone in Bergliez, but they’d want to know who.”

“That one might work,” Claude says. “What if you said you had family there you hadn’t seen in a few moons, think you could pull it off?”

“Huh,” Leonie says. “Yeah. I can do that.”

The smile is audible in Claude’s voice as he says, “Good luck.”

* * *

The rendezvous point Claude had selected is among the spots they had noted on the way might make a good campsite, a place where a game trail twists away from the road. It is not only still in Myrddin territory, it is east of the bridge, meaning that they have sent Marianne, Leonie, and Balthus on ahead.

Lorenz dislikes that strongly, but he tells himself that the other three are capable of defending themselves if necessary, and with any luck it will not even be necessary. All they need is for Leonie to get confirmation from the guards that they are there at Acheron von Myrddin’s orders, not Count Bergliez’s or the Adrestian Emperor’s, and that can be done easily and without risk.

Claude flew his wyvern down to the stream the trail had led them to, and Thunder picked his way with sufficient grace that the signs of his passing might be mistaken for those of an oversized deer at a casual glance, so they are at least well-concealed if they remain here. If.

“Not much flat ground,” Claude says, looking at the rippling shallows of the stream, rushing along between sloping banks.

Lorenz studies the brush across the stream. “There seems to be a clearing of some sort through there.”

“Might as well,” Claude says. “Don’t try to—never mind.”

“Don’t try to what?” Lorenz asks.

Claude doesn’t sigh, but there is a suggestion of a sigh before he speaks. “Jump it.”

Thunder could take the jump easily enough, and would probably be happy to try. However, the banks are uncertain footing, and in the absence of his father’s expectant oversight Lorenz sees no need to make the attempt. “I am hardly that foolhardy,” he says coldly, “nor would I risk my only mount this far from the monastery.”

“…Right,” Claude says.

Lorenz dismounts, removes his gauntlets, and ties Thunder to the trunk of one of the holm oaks, checking to be sure there is enough give in the rope to allow him to drink. Naturally he’ll lead Thunder across the stream if there is somewhere suitable to camp on the other side, but Thunder is not fond enough of water, or of being led, for Lorenz to do it without need.

Claude is first across the stream, of course, since a mere thread of running water is hardly a concern to a wyvern as it is to a horse. The brush on the other side, however, is easier to pass on foot. There is indeed a small clearing, the shadows deepening with the first hints of twilight and the brush fading into winter-dull grasses.

A rosebush rises from the grasses on the eastern side of the clearing, already in bloom despite the season. Its branches are gilded by the westering light, but the rich crimson of the blossoms is unaffected except at the very edges where the petals bleach to white. Roses blossoming under the Pegasus Moon, even in Myrddin? Remarkable. Lorenz bends to break off one of the roses, careful not to prick his fingers on the thorns.

Behind him, Claude shouts, “Wait!”

Lorenz’s hand tightens at the sudden noise and the rose twists on its stem, not severed but still torn. The air goes thick with pollen, deeper gold than the sunlight and smelling…odd.The fragrance is not that of roses, but of some sweet spice. Cloves, maybe?

“Don’t—oh, shit.”

For all his casual impropriety, Claude does not make a habit of using vulgar language, at least not publicly; Lorenz does _not_ permit any of the occasional things he had overheard through their shared wall to dwell in his mind. It is startling enough that Lorenz turns to face him, letting the rose swing on its broken stem, and it must be his surprise (or the uncalled-for memory of, of voices through the wall) that makes Lorenz flush as Claude’s eyes sweep over him from head to foot.

“Go and…” Claude looks back the way they’d come, then at Lorenz again, and tips his head back in despair, lips pressing so tightly together they become a single line. “You breathed it in, didn’t you.”

Lorenz wants to protest that he has never been allergic to roses, but… “I take it this is poisonous.” He feels…well enough, mostly. His heart is beating faster, though that could just be apprehension; the air seems warmer than it had before. The scent of cloves is already fading. “Lethal?”

Claude actually laughs, though without much amusement. “No. It’s, uh, it’s called…a bunch of things. Rose of Bassarid?”

Lorenz shakes his head. It is more than just apprehension driving his pulse now, sending a feverish tingling through his veins. Of all horrible times—it must be the fear of whatever is to come that has his attention lingering on the column of Claude’s throat, half-hidden by his collar and a carelessly-tied neckcloth. He disciplines his attention, ruthlessly. This is not lethal, therefore he will endure it; since it is not lethal, he has no need for any final—whimsy.

“Scornflower?” Claude tries. Lorenz shakes his head again. “Cethleann’s Bane?”

That name Lorenz knows, vaguely. It is the subject of some Adrestian folktale or other, something… He should know this, but the sunlight runs smoothly along Claude’s hair, catches glittering in the short hairs of his beard, and Lorenz finds himself wondering how much rougher the beard, the _stubble_ —

For heaven’s sake. “I’ve heard of it,” Lorenz says, not pleased with the breathlessness of his own voice. He _is_ breathless, but not going to die, and therefore there is no call to show weakness.

“Okay,” Claude says, with a little too much cheer. “That’s great.”

Lorenz stares helplessly at him. That neckcloth is maddening, the knot so sloppily tied that it would be a _service_ to undo it. Claude had never bothered with such a thing at the Academy; he had gone around with his jacket opened and the blouse underneath cut low enough to bare the hollow at the base of his throat, framed by cords of muscle and the sharp wings of his collarbones. Instead of white like everyone else Claude had always worn yellow, bright enough to demand attention, and Lorenz had found his attention demanded. He had wanted—he’d wanted—

Claude sighs. “You don’t know what it is, do you.”

Lorenz does not trust himself to answer with anything more than a shake of his head. He curls his hands into fists, digging his nails into the flesh of his palms in an attempt to focus. Horrifyingly, in spite of the circumstances, he can feel a familiar unruly stirring between his legs.

“Okay.” Claude takes a deep breath. Lorenz tries, and fails, not to watch his shoulders and chest rise with the inhale. He tightens his fists, but he can barely feel the sting of his nails at all. Archery is physically demanding, and it has certainly left its marks on Claude. “It’s an aphrodisiac with some nasty side effects.”

No. No, this cannot be happening. Lorenz calls two decades and more of training in diction and poise to mind, swallows, and says, “Side effects?” in a voice that is very nearly clear.

Claude scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, not quite managing to look Lorenz in the eye. Sunlight runs along the angle of his jaw, his—no. Lorenz is a man, not a beast; he will not be driven by a flower. He is not a stranger to the demands his body makes, to shameful dreams that wake him in an agony of desire. This will end. All he needs to do is endure it until then.

“If you try to wait it out you might go sterile,” Claude says to the air a few feet to the side of Lorenz’s head, letting his hand fall. “Or, hypothetically speaking, if you’re made to wait it out. Nasty thing to do to a political rival.”

Lorenz makes a strangled sound of protest, unable to shape the words. He can’t—Gloucester—this must be a joke, it _must_ , except there is no denying how tight his trousers have become where his, his member strains against them—and Claude could _see_ it, if he looked down. There is nothing Lorenz can do about that, or the noise he makes in the back of his throat, high and wounded.

Count Gloucester’s heir does not _whine_. Lorenz’s skin burns hotter with shame.

“It won’t be that bad,” Claude says, too cheerfully again, still not looking at Lorenz. He might be blushing as well, and to have managed to cause Claude von Riegan to feel embarrassed for him is yet another humiliation. “I’ll look the other way while I stand guard, you can just…” He gestures, a quick pump of his hand that makes Lorenz helplessly aware of the shape and strength of Claude’s fingers. They must be calloused from the bowstring; they would be rough against Lorenz’s skin. The thought is a jolt of heat down his spine. “How often do you get to jerk off on a mission and claim it was medically necessary, right?”

Lorenz swallows again and speaks, as carefully as before. “That will…resolve the situation without damage?” His voice is hoarser this time in spite of his care. He sounds—well. They both know what he sounds like. He is hardly willing to surrender without a fight, though.

Claude gives him the easy, depthless smile that he uses at political meetings. Lorenz hates it. “Absolutely. You have any oil in your bag?”

“ _What_?” Lorenz asks, heart skipping again with—terror.

“Not chafing?” Claude frowns at him, more puzzled than displeased. “What do you usually use when you jerk off? I can’t really picture you using spit.”

Lorenz _doesn’t_ , or at least does only when he absolutely cannot avoid it, when the distraction of physical lust has gotten to the point that his loss of focus is more dangerous than self-indulgence. It is difficult to control his thoughts. It is safer not to.

Nothing about this is safe.

“I have a tin of hand salve in my pack,” he says, and closes his eyes.

He can hear the crunch of dry grass and brush as Claude walks away, back to where Thunder is tied on the other side of the stream. Arousal is an urgent ache now, every beat of his heart tightening his skin further.

 _I can’t really picture you using spit_ , Claude had said, entirely as if he had—no. _No_. Lorenz fights to steady his breathing, to sip air instead of gulping it. The way his lungs strain in rebellion it feels as if he’s drowning, but there is… He can still be disciplined. Especially with Claude on his way back, not yet looking the other way—oh, Goddess, of all people, Lorenz thinks, despairing. If only it had been _anyone_ else.

Another rustle in the brush makes his eyes snap open again. Claude holds up the silver tin of salve as he comes closer, not quite a question, but Lorenz nods anyway. Claude’s eyes flick over him, down and back up, and Lorenz—Lorenz is burning, even when Claude looks sharply away and holds the tin out. There is a blanket over his other arm.

“You need any help with your armor?” Claude asks.

Lorenz does not need help with his armor. Lorenz needs this to be _over_ , and there is nothing in the design of his cuirass or faulds that keeps him from unfastening his trousers. He has already taken off his gauntlets. He will do what needs to be done (arousal surges again at the thought, and he shoves it aside) and then never speak of this again, and ignore whatever Claude has to say about it.

“Lorenz?” Claude asks, strangely subdued. He must be saving the laughter for later, so Lorenz can’t accuse him of deliberately plotting to cut off the line of Gloucester.

“No,” Lorenz says. “Just…leave me alone.”

Claude opens his mouth, then closes it and nods. He drops the blanket on the ground before he turns and walks to the edge of the clearing, facing back the way they’d come, and clasps his hands behind his back. Archer’s hands, deft and powerful—

No.

Lorenz spreads the blanket out. It is his own, and he would not usually mistreat it this way, but he is hardly going to demand to mistreat—someone else’s blanket. He undoes his trousers with shaking hands, then his smallclothes, the breath hissing between his teeth with relief as he frees his erection from the tight cloth. His nails have left deep red crescents in the palms of his hands, but there is fortunately no blood.

He arranges himself sitting, one knee drawn up and the other flat on the ground, and feels himself blush at the unaccustomedly lewd sight of his erection in full daylight, flushed red as it juts from the restrained lavender of his trousers. It is incongruous, obscene. This is something to be taken care of in the dark.

It will likely go faster with the salve. Lorenz fumbles the tin open, not thinking about how Claude had brought it for him. The wax and oil melt against his fingers, and the scent of roses rises in the air: real roses, not the twisted imitation that had tricked him.

Unforgivably foolish, he thinks, rubbing his palms together to spread the salve. If he hadn’t had such a senseless fondness for roses, if he had not insisted on pursuing elegance as well as power and chosen an emblem of the same, he would never have put himself in such a position. Haltingly, he wraps one oil-slick hand around his erection, gritting his teeth against any sound. Cethleann’s Bane—no, he dislikes that name. There is no need to dignify it thus. _Scornflower_ imitates a lovely rose, the deep radiant red of its petals giving way to white with barely a blush between, but nothing about it had demanded attention. It had been his own folly that reduced him to this.

It is—Lorenz has never understood the point of making a show of oneself. Claude never had any hesitation about being loud when they were at the Academy together, and has learned little restraint since then, which has led to more than a few torturous nights when Lorenz lay hot and trembling on the other side of a too-thin wall, painfully aware of the rush of blood through his body as he listened—no. No, he _cannot_ think about Claude, all he’d meant to do was think about how exposed he is, outside, not even the shield of a tent between him and—

Lorenz wants to curl up in despair, and at the same time his erection is still hot and painfully hard in his hand. He must be close. Fluid is pearling at the tip, and he sweeps his thumb across the sensitive skin there and bites his lip hard to keep back a moan. It can’t take much longer. It _must_ not take much longer, or he risks blighting the line of Gloucester.

He looks up at Claude and then away, furious at himself. He needs—he needs to focus. If he can turn his attention to someone suitable, for just long enough to purge the scornflower’s influence from his system, then it will be over. He wishes Marianne were here. He wishes he had done more than dabble in Faith himself, but it had seemed another frivolity. He shouldn’t wish Marianne were here, though, lovely as she is—

Absolutely not. She is his friend, and Margrave Edmund’s daughter besides.

Lorenz closes his eyes and tries to imagine someone he would not be disgracing, but also would not disgrace himself with. A wife, naturally, since she must be noble-born. Dark hair—no, no, fair. Not too tall, but not too short either. Not too much in the way of bosom, lest there be gossip about her, nor too muscular, as it is unfashionable. And this, this vague wife-shaped figure, who would be quiet and undemanding, self-sufficient and controlled, as befits the future Countess Gloucester, would…would what?

Wait in the marital bed, Lorenz supposes, hand still sliding over his straining erection. It _hurts_ , a twisting heat throbbing in his testicles, tangling low in his abdomen. His thighs are shaking; his breath catches ragged in his throat. Panic lances through pleasure and pain both: this isn’t working, the House of Gloucester will fall into irrelevance by his own failure, his father will be furious. The hazy image of the future Countess Gloucester shatters.

This time Lorenz fails to choke back a sob, in spite of his best efforts.

“Lorenz?” Claude asks, so immediately that he must have been listening. Lorenz clenches his jaw and tries, again, to still his breathing. “Everything okay?”

Well. Lorenz must answer. He gulps air and freezes again at the urgency of that reflex, the _certainty_ that if he speaks it will be with the same lack of control. He makes himself breathe a few more times, slowly, when his lungs scream for speed. “Fine,” he snaps, and his voice breaks in the middle of even that single word.

His eyes sting with tears. He wants to sink into the earth. He will not weep. He _will_ not.

“You don’t sound fine.” Claude sounds startlingly serious, almost…concerned. No, Lorenz must be imagining that. Claude would hardly worry about him.

Goddess have mercy, he hurts. The hot ache of frustrated arousal tangles around his groin, and something cold hollows out his chest. He could crack between the two.

He opens his eyes and blinks rapidly a few times in an attempt to dry the tears he refuses to shed. Claude hasn’t moved, but the angle of his head, the set of his shoulders, all suggest that he might at a moment’s notice. Lorenz tries to fight away the thought, like trying to bail a foundering skiff with a sieve: Claude could turn, could look. Might, perhaps, not laugh, though that seems an impossible daydream. Lorenz might as well wish—

“Do you want some help with that?” Claude asks, so unexpectedly that Lorenz, unprepared, cannot bite back the sound he makes low in his throat at the offer.

His shame is almost complete. It only needs Claude to laugh at him for his wanton reaction to a few simple words, to mock him for being unable to even relieve his own urges himself, as is more than expected. Perhaps the next rumor will be that he is already impotent. He rests his face against his knee in despair, letting his hand fall away from his erection.

“Lorenz?”

Claude’s tone _is_ gentle. Lorenz has never heard Claude say his name like that before, or he would have—would have remembered. Would have had to fight the memory away on the nights he took himself in hand. He wants to say yes more badly than he wants to draw a full breath, but he _can’t_. Just the idea of having to beg Duke Riegan for relief—Lorenz isn’t even sure if the sound that tears out of him this time is a sob or a moan, desire burning for a moment through the twisting ache like a flare through fog.

He would beg. He might enjoy it. He cannot risk it, except that he can think of nothing else to try.

“Lorenz,” Claude says again, carefully as if Lorenz were a spooked horse, “you’re not okay.”

Lorenz doesn’t lift his head from his knee as he says, “Yes.”

It will be—he will manage. He will give nothing of himself to Claude, and he will come out the other side unscathed. Claude can tease him for his incompetence, for his virginity if he guesses that much, but not for anything else, and Lorenz will…Lorenz will go on. Lorenz will live with the sense-memory of Claude’s hand around his cock, if that is what he has to do.

There are too many things he wants, and none of them things he should want. He will burn the scornflower bush to the root when he—once this is over.

“Yes, you’re not okay, or yes, you want—”

“I will,” Lorenz says, fighting every syllable, fighting his gasping breaths, shaping the words first in his mind before he speaks them precisely in a voice gone low and rough, “permit you to assist.” He cannot help his voice, and it mocks his pretense.

Grass rustles. “Permit me to assist, huh,” Claude says wryly. “Why, Lorenz—”

Lorenz flinches, curling tighter over his knee.

“Okay,” Claude says, serious again. He must be very close now.

Part of Lorenz wants to cover himself; the rest of him knows there’s no point. He might as well simply, simply reveal—he could just lie back, if he didn’t need to keep some semblance of dignity, of power, of…

Light pressure on his left pauldron: Claude resting a hand on his shoulder. “First thing, let’s get your armor off.”

“Why?” Lorenz asks, wincing at the way even that one syllable stretches and gutters in his mouth. The armor covers nothing he needs for this. There is no need to make a _production_ of it. He does not need to comply with whatever scheme Claude has in mind. They are not lovers.

“…Because it doesn’t look comfortable.” Claude’s hand shifts, but Lorenz can’t feel it through metal and padding, only the change in where that metal presses against him. “Seriously, you need to relax.”

He tells Lorenz that constantly, but it is softer now, less judgmental. “Relax,” Lorenz scoffs, or tries to scoff.

“Yeah. Can I?” Claude taps the pauldron. Metal chimes dully beneath his finger.

Lorenz should say no, but he wants—he hardly even feels his own arousal now, just a dull roaring of need he has proven unable to do anything about—but he doesn’t _want_ to sit here too warm and weighed-down in his armor, not when Claude so clearly expects him to agree to removing it. Perhaps it is acceptable, in these…special circumstances. He nods.

Metal clicks. The weight on his shoulders lightens.

“Arms next,” Claude says. He takes off the elbow caps, the rerebraces and vambraces, as if he has dealt with plate armor every day of his life. Lorenz breathes. His padded jacket is still between himself and Claude. He can’t feel Claude’s hands on his arms. It is all right. It will be all right. “Okay, unfastening the rest of it.”

The metal around Lorenz’s chest loosens. It is even harder to breathe slowly, more obvious when he fails. That is no excuse to stop trying. He curls his hands into fists again, counts his breaths, feels Claude ease the halves of the cuirass away from him. Claude’s hands are at his waist now, knuckles pressing against Lorenz’s side through the padding as he unhooks the faulds, and Lorenz bites his lip, harder this time, focusing on the bright sting at his mouth instead of Claude’s fingers.

“Stand up a minute,” Claude says, not quite asking, and Lorenz wills himself not to care that he is being ordered around as he forces his legs to hold him. Claude gets the rest of the armor off quickly. His gaze doesn’t linger on Lorenz’s cock.

Lorenz, of course, should not want it to.

Claude looks up then, at Lorenz’s mouth. He presses a finger gently to Lorenz’s bitten lip and Lorenz can’t help the shudder that rattles him to the marrow, spurring his heart and weakening his knees. He wants—what he wants is irrelevant and unsuitable. Claude steadies him with his other hand and draws that taunting finger back, the tip smeared red.

Now Lorenz tastes the iron. “Ah,” he says, licking the blood away from his cracked lip with a wince.

“Stop doing that,” Claude says, still not asking. Lorenz closes his eyes again, and Claude sighs. “Will you _please_ , if you would be so kind, sit down again without—” He takes one of Lorenz’s hands and uncurls it. Lorenz lets him, shivering again at the touch; he looks, even though he shouldn’t. Claude’s thumb sweeps across his palm, the bowstring callus scraping over salve-slick skin and a new dappling of nail-marks. “What are you _doing_?”

There is no harshness in his tone yet but Lorenz still recoils, jerking his hand back protectively. “Not your concern.”

“That is your problem.” Claude sounds more…Lorenz’s mind spins for words and settles on _exasperated_ …than Lorenz has ever heard him. “God _dess_ , have you ever even—okay.” He takes a deep breath; his shoulders drop when he exhales. “Trying to be quiet?”

It is…most of the answer, certainly the easiest. Lorenz nods.

“Well, I’ve probably heard worse than anything you can do,” Claude says with a smile so dangerously charming that Lorenz wants to be charmed, “so stop hurting yourself. Unless you like that, I mean, no judgment here.”

Lorenz is too astonished to speak. He manages a faint croaking noise, entirely without words.

Claude shrugs. “Some people like a little pain. I don’t think that’s you, though, is it?” He actually waits for Lorenz to answer. Lorenz, who has never even realized this was a question that could need to be asked, shakes his head. “Right. Sit down. You’re allowed to make noise.” Claude’s words are abrupt, but his voice is almost gentle.

“I don’t need your permission,” Lorenz says, strangled. Fresh heat blooms under his skin. It’s—it is too much. He pulls away and sits with a jarring thud that does little to knock sense back into his head.

“Okay.” Claude spreads his hands palm-up, harmless. As if he is ever harmless. “Sorry. Can you lose the jacket too?”

It can hardly be less dignified than anything else he is being forced to endure. Lorenz’s fingers slip on the ties, but at least there are no buttons or hooks to undo. The jacket falls away and leaves him in nothing but a thin linen shirt. He is almost expecting Claude to ask him to remove that as well, but of course Claude does not. He has no reason to; it is hardly as if whatever nonsense about comfort he has in mind needs Lorenz nude, or as if he would want to look without a need.

Lorenz wants to deny he minds, but he—he _does_ mind. He wants Claude to look at him right now with hunger, not pity. The mere thought, the vision of Claude’s gaze heating as it rests on him, is enough to make him shiver again. Impossible, impermissible, but _how_ he wants—

Claude rests a hand on his shoulder, the shirt nothing between their skin, and Lorenz cannot even try not to moan. Too late, he tenses again, bracing against the hot rush of their contact. His pulse throbs heavy through his body. He almost brings a hand back to his cock, straining again for release, but it won’t do any good, and he can hardly admit that a simple touch has affected him so badly.

“Easy,” Claude says gently, rubbing Lorenz’s shoulder as if—yes, still as if he is soothing a horse. Lorenz should be offended. “Just breathe, okay? I’ve got you.”

There is no such thing as _just breathe_ , but Lorenz…tries. The air stutters in his chest, and Claude’s hand around his biceps feels warm enough to scald him from the inside out, and on his third try his control slips and what comes out is a shuddering gasp that makes him feel as if he has _stopped_ drowning. The relief is so pure it feels almost like pleasure; Claude doesn’t draw back his hand.

Lorenz lets himself do it again.

“There you go.” Claude’s voice is low and warm, something Lorenz will be hearing nightly. He had been hopelessly foolish to think he could bear this. Claude shifts his hand back up Lorenz’s shoulder, curving over the trapezius. “Okay. I can think of a few things to try.”

“Wh—” Lorenz starts, and loses the rest of the word as Claude’s thumb presses against the muscle beneath it. Lorenz is so tense he hardly feels it as intended, but still, the idea of having the strain eased from his muscles is…tempting. Dangerously so. Claude brings his other hand up, mirroring the action on the other side: testing, nothing more. Lorenz makes himself find words. “That is—hardly necessary.”

Claude, surprisingly, stops. “You feel like you’re still wearing your armor,” he says, but there is still (incredibly) no mockery in his tone. “It can’t feel good.”

Whether it _feels good_ is immaterial. Like armor, it serves a purpose; if Lorenz lets down his guard, he might—it hardly bears thinking of. Melting under Claude’s hands is not an option. They still have to return to Garreg Mach together. “What _things_ did you have in mind?” He winces at the ruin of his voice, at how often he has to breathe.

Claude refrains from mentioning it. Instead he says, “Well, my first plan’s out.” His hands are still resting on Lorenz’s shoulders; he tightens his fingers gently and then lets them fall away. “One way or another, I figure I try to make you feel good.”

That damnable phrase again. Lorenz almost laughs, but there is nothing funny in the situation.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Claude says, touching Lorenz again: this time a hand to mid-back, distracting enough that Lorenz almost forgets to dread whatever he is about to say, “but do you know what you like?”

What an unanswerable question. Lorenz can feel each of Claude’s fingers separately, as well as the steadier pressure of his palm, all burning hot through his shirt. Lorenz knows what he can’t have; that must be close enough. But to admit—the worst nights to endure were the ones when Claude brought someone else back to his room. He was louder, and often so were they, and he had never, _no one_ had ever asked Lorenz, though of course Lorenz would have had to have refused if they had.

“Yes,” Lorenz says. He is a pathetic enough sight right now. He will not make it worse by, by admitting that Claude is not the only one to have proved resistant to the Gloucester lineage and good looks.

Silence. Lorenz doesn’t even have to look to know that Claude is waiting expectantly for information Lorenz lacks, or for—guesses he cannot make aloud.

“…No,” he whispers. His shoulders draw in tightly, a motion his cuirass would have prevented or at least hidden.

Claude takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, a thread of strain in his voice. If he is covering laughter he covers it well; there is not a trace of it as he continues. “And you were… When you tried jerking off earlier, you were doing what works best for you?”

Lorenz nods. It is…close enough to true. In the dark privacy of his own room, with no _audience_ , driven to self-indulgence by an accumulation of desires, he is sometimes less diligent about thinking only of suitable things. But the motions are the same, the urgent rush of pleasure when his hand passes just below the head or across the tip, the care not to let his hands wander.

“Right,” Claude says. He sits down at Lorenz’s side, facing him, and reaches across Lorenz to put a hand on the side of his throat: barely a breath of pressure, but Lorenz turns his head toward Claude anyway, helpless not to. Claude’s eyes are very dark in the golden light, and there is not even a hint of laughter to his mouth. “Plan C. How do you feel about getting sucked off?”

Lorenz’s cock twitches with another exhausting jolt of _want_. Anything. He will take anything. “Positively,” he says with care.

Claude is smiling a little now. “Yeah?”

Why must he ask _again_? They are wasting time; they must be wasting daylight as well. Lorenz nods again, then flinches back when Claude leans in, not to his lap but toward his face. “What—”

“No kissing,” Claude says, not quite a question, sitting back. The smile is gone. Lorenz almost feels he should apologize, but what can he say? This is hard enough without that. A kiss would be unnecessary, a false promise of affection with nothing to justify it. “Anything else?”

“I don’t know,” Lorenz admits. Fire spreads under his skin, out from Claude’s hand. Claude must be able to feel the frantic beat of his heart in the artery under his jaw, but all Lorenz can think of is Claude shifting his grip to curve around the back of Lorenz’s neck and pull him closer anyway, or Claude touching his mouth again, this time not to point out blood but parting Lorenz’s lips with his fingers, pushing—

He is making that sound again: that high, helpless, shameful thing. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment but when he opens them Claude is still watching him with a focus that makes everything worse. His whole body is throbbing, overheated; his cock is dripping, though he hasn’t touched it in…since Claude came over, however long ago that was.

Claude clears his throat. “Thought of something?”

Lorenz, frantic, shakes his head. Claude’s plan is good. There is no need to change it, and _certainly_ no need to change it to something so—unhelpful.

“Let me know if you do,” Claude says, even more gentle than he had been before. As if Lorenz really could tell him, as if it would be all right. “Okay, if…hm. Might need to get your trousers off.”

The angle is different for anyone else, of course, and the trousers are tailored closely enough that they might easily get in the way. Still, Lorenz feels like he should protest.

He does not.

He lets Claude unfasten his boots when his fingers slip too badly on the buttons, stands despite the feeling that his legs have turned to syrup in order to salvage some of his dignity by removing his own trousers and smallclothes together. Seated again, he looks down at his shirt, hesitant. It could—there might be mess.

Claude settles a hand on his knee, another tide of fire, and before Lorenz can stop himself he pulls the shirt off over his head as well. He doesn’t dare look at Claude, afraid of…pity again, or dismissal, or contempt. All he can think is that he is sitting outdoors, in the slow light of the afternoon sun, without a stitch of clothing on, and it feels like he might die from wanting if Claude von Riegan doesn’t touch him.

Of course, he will not die. Lorenz tells himself that firmly, ignoring the raw ache twisted through his body now from thighs to chest. He will _not_ die. Even if the worst happens and Claude’s plan fails as well, other lords have been left sterile by accidents before.

“Lie back,” Claude says after a moment that stretches a hundred years.

Lorenz does. The dome of the sky is huge and deepening, even fringed by trees; it feels like Claude’s hand on his leg is the only anchor left in the world. Fear steals his breath again: he will embarrass himself, he will lose himself after all. He will hate it, when he’s wasted years fighting against wanting it. He will like it, and have to live without.

Claude’s hand moves in a slow stroke, up and down, barely above Lorenz’s knee. He doubtless means it to soothe, but Lorenz feels as if his entire body is a raw nerve. It feels shockingly good, enough that he whimpers before he can stop himself.

“You’re still so damn tense,” Claude mutters, even as his hands move higher, easing Lorenz’s thighs apart. Lorenz feels the muscles clench under Claude’s fingers, a panicked tightening (he can’t do this, he can’t let—) and makes himself relax them. He has ridden into battle often enough, after all. If there is any way his body knows to feign calm, this is it. Claude says, “There you are. Just like that.”

His voice is so warm with approval that Lorenz twists against the ground, the words too much to hold still under and not enough at the same time. He does not need Claude von Riegan’s approval, he reminds himself, he should not even want it: but here he is, craving it. Claude settles himself between Lorenz’s legs, one hand on each thigh, and Lorenz feels—split open, exposed. The insides of his thighs are more tender than he’d ever realized; the scrape of Claude’s calluses against them sends sparks flying under his skin, racing up to his cock.

This had not—he had thought it would feel different, when he agreed, less vulnerable, less as if he could be shattered into pieces with a breath or a word. He wants to blame the scornflower. Claude traces the muscles of Lorenz’s thighs around and up to his hips, rubbing slow circles against the bone there. Lorenz fights to hold still, gasping for breath, shaking with feverish intensity. Not dying, he reminds himself. Not dying, it’s only that his own hands have never felt like this.

Claude’s face is half-shadowed, the sun catching behind him and outlining him in perfect gold. Lorenz can barely focus his eyes, can certainly not make out the details of Claude’s expression as he says, “Okay. Make noise if you want—think of it as constructive feedback.” He winks, the gesture broad as a parody. “Don’t…well, you can pull my hair a little. Not too hard.”

Lorenz feels as if he’s just been judged and found…not wanting? He has no particular wish to pull Claude’s hair regardless, but permission is a treacherously soft feeling.

“Let me know if you want me to stop,” Claude says, and lowers his head and takes Lorenz in.

It is—Lorenz is stunned with pleasure, the clearing and everything in it narrowing down to the impossibly indulgent heat of Claude’s mouth, to the absence of pain welling up as Claude sucks him further down. His hips jerk without his intent and Claude holds him still, hands firm on Lorenz’s hips and then gentling as Lorenz goes weak with another shuddering wave of yearning.

He could fall into the sky, unmoored by the wet slide of lips and tongue, the only sounds left in the world the wreck of his breathing and his heart roaring in his ears. He reaches out blindly, needing to touch, and his fingers settle against Claude’s jaw. It is not…he had meant to put his hand on Claude’s shoulder, but—Claude’s beard is softer than it looks, still rougher than the hair on his head must be, crisp and springing, prickling under Lorenz’s fingertips where it fades into stubble.

Claude makes a low noise that might be pleased, that vibrates through Lorenz’s cock and sends sensation ricocheting through him, and then pulls away. Lorenz whimpers at the loss, and then again, sharper, as Claude nuzzles against his thigh where the skin is so thin it’s fragile, lips parting in—it is not a kiss, because if it were a kiss Lorenz would have to stop him. Lorenz had never, he would swear he had never, wondered what Claude’s beard would feel like against his thighs, only against his hand or perhaps his lips, but now he knows: like an itch in his blood, something that makes him splay his legs wider and try to draw Claude closer.

He must look like a—like—Lorenz closes his eyes against the thought of how he must look, spread out like this, breathless and desperate and shaking as Claude undoes him. “Please,” he gasps, not even sure what he means. “I—”

“Sorry,” Claude says, his mouth still _moving_ , his tongue hot against the inside of Lorenz’s thigh. His teeth are—Lorenz does _not_ want to be…bitten, or marked; he is _not_ wondering whether the brush of Claude’s stubble has been enough to graze pink across his skin, secretly, a reminder. There cannot be any reminders. Lorenz cannot _want_ any reminders.

He makes a helpless noise, awash in sensation and hopelessness, and prays it sounds like a complaint.

It must: Claude says, “Didn’t mean to tease,” as if he has _ever_ not meant to tease, as if he has not delighted in agitating Lorenz for the last six years, and swallows Lorenz’s cock down again. This time his focus is divided, and Lorenz shakes under it. Claude touches him as well, hands light and lingering as he traces the muscles of Lorenz’s thighs. There is one searing moment when Lorenz thinks he might spend and be free of this with nothing more given away, when Claude’s fingers curve under his legs and he—Claude can move him as he chooses; Lorenz is too weak with wanting to stop him.

But of course Claude does not, of course, and it seems the scornflower is still unwilling to release Lorenz. He opens his eyes again and stares back into the cool blue of the sky. It helps a little, eases the terrifying urgency of desire.

Claude pulls back again to ask, “Do you like having your balls touched, or is it too much like this?” in a voice gone as rough as Lorenz’s. His mouth is red and swollen, obscenely vivid even against his flushed cheeks. He expects Lorenz to _answer_ him.

“I don’t…know,” Lorenz says, mortified at the admission and then again at the way he sounds as if he’s been screaming. Has he? He thinks not, he thinks it is only…this, again, ruining all his careful composure. Making him have to say such things, in such a voice. “It is hardly necessary.”

Claude mutters something too quietly for Lorenz to hear and cups Lorenz’s sac gently in one hand. It is another jolt of pleasure in spite of the strain, something warm and real that eases some of the feeling of being drawn to breaking by this fruitless yearning. Claude is watching Lorenz, gaze dark and steady, and Lorenz covers his face with his hands and says, “Yes.”

When Claude bends down this time he has to move Lorenz’s legs a little further apart, and Lorenz—Lorenz presses one hand over his own mouth to keep from saying anything. Claude’s mouth is still almost worth ruin; his hands draw sparks under Lorenz’s skin, gentle on his sac and his thighs and the soft-skinned groove where leg meets body and over again, never going—he won’t spare Lorenz the admission. If Lorenz keeps quiet, this _will_ be over soon, it must, scornflower or no this is so much better than his own hand.

But Lorenz is on fire, radiant with it, his whole body a twisting ache of pleasure and denial and wanting, and he can’t—he can’t— “Please,” he moans, almost a sob, “I want—”

He cannot say it. The words are clear in his head, sharp edges and blunt impact, but to _say_ them?

Claude stops, though, his hands too light on Lorenz’s skin but still better than nothing. “What?” he asks, and Lorenz wants to call his voice gentle, for all the rasp in it: he shivers and tucks that broken sound off Claude’s silver tongue away in his mind as well. “Thought of something after all?”

“I…” There is another sob clawing its way out of the hollowness in Lorenz’s chest. “I—please, don’t make me ask.”

“Kind of need you to,” Claude says. His fingers trace lazy patterns against Lorenz’s thighs, leaving him simmering, drawn fine as wire. “Unless you want me to just start trying things.” It is a joke. Only a joke.

Lorenz, unguarded, can’t stifle the whine this time. He can feel his cock jerk, exposed as he is with nothing to conceal his reaction.

“Gods,” Claude breathes.

Lorenz presses his hands tighter over his face. Perhaps the goddess will strike them both dead. Perhaps he can blame the scornflower. Anything would be better than this, this unwilling admission of some of his most shameful dreams: the ones where the obligation of a nobleman to give is…twisted, where he is simply used as a vessel for someone else’s pleasure.

Claude’s hands settle firmly against Lorenz’s legs, holding him steady, anchoring him between Claude and the ground. “Hey. Lorenz. It’s okay.”

It is manifestly not _okay_. “My…apologies,” Lorenz tries anyway, not sure what else to do.

“It’s okay,” Claude says again, insistent. This is the voice he uses about Alliance matters, the one that he uses staring down the Roundtable when he’s spent weeks, moons, gathering all the facts, and now he needs everyone else to believe with him. Lorenz has always had a weakness for that Claude. Some of the panic icing his nerves eases. “Can you take your hands off your face and look at me?”

That is a very good question. Still, Lorenz supposes it is better to know now. Warily, he lowers his hands and tilts his head up. Claude looks as sincere as he sounds, though more…disheveled.

“There you go,” Claude says. Lorenz has to close his eyes again against the sweetness of that approval, flooding in against the withering shame. He has done nothing worth approbation, and still Claude goes on. “You’re okay. I don’t—there’s nothing wrong with what you want, okay?”

How Claude can say that, as easily as if it is true, Lorenz has no idea. “It—the expectations of—”

“Fuck them,” Claude says, low and very clear. His hands are so warm, even in the cooling air. “Look, you’re out of your head on Rose of Bassarid and I’d rather you not hate me more in an hour. Right now you’d probably like almost anything I did to you.”

Lorenz would. He squeezes his eyes closed tighter, enough that the lids hurt. If he were truly out of his head he would say so.

He can hardly offer that in his own defense.

Claude, still in his Roundtable voice, so earnest Lorenz has never been able to help wanting to follow him, says, “So I need to know what you actually want right now. If it’s safe, if it’s possible, I will do it for you, and I won’t judge you for it either way. But I need you to give me _something_ to work with here.”

“I—I want—” Lorenz’s breath hitches, and the sound of his own voice sends panic spiking through him again. He wants it so badly he thinks nothing else will do. He cannot possibly—he cannot ask this and then expect to go on with his life, arguing taxation rates and road construction, speaking judgments on disputes in Gloucester, commanding a battalion, negotiating. He cannot ask it.

Claude is still waiting. Lorenz half-wishes, despairingly, that Claude were less of a good man, and knows he would—care for Claude less if he were.

He cannot _say_ it. The words are lodged in his throat, choking him. He needs this to end, he needs release, he needs—

Trembling, driven to breaking, Lorenz spreads his legs wider, digs his heels into the ground and cants his hips up. As soon as he does he wants to take it back, but the desperate hunger for this, the hope that Claude _will_ , is stronger even than the shame. Goddess, what he must look like: spread open, exposed, offering himself.

Claude inhales so sharply that Lorenz hears it even over the panicked thudding of his own heartbeat. “Yeah?” he asks, low and hot, so promising that some of the panic ebbs with just that one word. “You want me to fuck you?”

The relief is unbearable, better than a full breath of air. “Please,” Lorenz gasps, shaking all over, suddenly weightless. “Please, yes, _please_.”

“God—dess,” Claude says, turning his face into Lorenz’s knee. Lorenz shivers again at the roughness of his beard, the wet heat of his mouth. “ _Fuck_. I was not expecting—I guess you’re sure, huh.”

“I could hear you through the wall.” Lorenz doesn’t mean to say it until he already has. The very zenith of the sky is starting to darken above them. He could float into it, washed off the ground in a slow tide of warmth. “Every time—I wanted—please.”

Claude leans up and for a moment Lorenz thinks—but he sits back just as quickly, the tin of salve in his hand. Lorenz had forgotten it. He would have let Claude kiss him, this time, if that had been what Claude meant. It is no worse than what he _has_ asked, but he cannot make himself ask for this either.

“You did?” Claude asks, with a smile that could turn stone molten. Lorenz thought he had catalogued all of Claude’s wicked smiles, but this one is new, and he cannot…he does not _need_ to stifle a moan. Claude swallows before he says, “Did you jerk off while you were listening?”

“I—wanted to,” Lorenz admits. Why lie, now? Why pretend he never lay there in the dark, aching and hard and refusing to speculate about who the lucky others were?

The scent of roses rises clear and sweet through the air between them as Claude works the salve in its tin. “I did not know that,” he says slowly, and that sounds like an admission too. “Okay. Have you ever done this before?”

With _whom_? Lorenz shakes his head.

“By yourself, I mean,” Claude says, too gentle for what he’s suggesting. “Even one finger?”

Lorenz shakes his head again. He might cry if Claude refuses now, and that is horrifying too. If he had known, he would have—no, if he had _known_ , he would have simply avoided the scornflower in the first place. Yes.

Claude takes a deep breath. “Okay. If you change your mind, if you don’t like it, I’ll stop.” He puts a good half-handful of salve on Lorenz’s stomach, and the air is full of roses.

“Wh—”

“I figured you wouldn’t want me putting my fingers back in your nice hand salve after I’d had them in your ass,” Claude says, matter-of-fact and crude but still so thoughtful it knocks the breath out of Lorenz all over again. He would have thrown out the tin, and Claude had realized that without even having to be asked.

The wax is melting on his skin, slow and thick. “Thank you,” Lorenz says, his voice a ragged nothing full of air.

“Relax.” Claude runs one hand up Lorenz’s thigh. Lorenz cannot possibly relax when he’s being touched like that; Lorenz can do nothing but tremble and burn. “Yeah. I’d tell you to turn over, but I’m not actually sure you’d be able to stay up on your hands and knees. Can you hold your leg up for me?” He eases Lorenz’s left leg up to his chest, hands lingering, and Lorenz holds on because he needs to hold on to _something_ anyway.

He is—so exposed, so open, the air cold against his most intimate parts, even more so as Claude’s hand curves around the top of his right thigh just where it joins his body, and—

Claude’s voice cuts through his thoughts just before he can panic again. “That’s it. You’re doing great, Lorenz.” Lorenz whimpers, pleasure sparkling through him, and Claude’s hand tightens a little on his leg, thumb flexing against the muscle. “Oh, I should have—you like that, don’t you?”

Lorenz doesn’t dare nod.

“You’re doing great,” Claude says again, voice rough and soft at the same time. Unendurable. His other hand, slick with salve, grazes the inside of Lorenz’s thigh, then the skin behind his sac, then further, not quite—not touching his entrance, not yet, but far closer than Lorenz has ever been for anything other than hygiene.

Lorenz’s chest tightens with something between fear and yearning; he can hear himself panting for breath.

“Easy,” Claude whispers. “I can’t do this if you don’t relax.”

How is—oh. Lorenz is still a trained cavalryman, after all, even now. He makes himself relax the muscles all down his legs, from hips to ankle, and his seat with them.

Claude presses a kiss to the underside of Lorenz’s thigh. “That’s good.” It is a doubled surge of pleasure, touch followed so closely by words, and Lorenz wonders dizzily how it is _possible_ that he has yet to spend, especially when Claude keeps talking. “Are your thighs especially sensitive, or is that just you?”

“Scornflower,” Lorenz manages. He would have _noticed_ , walking around, if he felt like this all the time.

“Mm.” Claude licks one of the cords of muscle and Lorenz almost arches off the blanket. “Nice for me—I like them. Riding’s a good look for you.”

Lorenz feels his whole body flush. He should tell Claude not to flatter him, but he…he likes it, and perhaps there is no harm as long as he doesn’t allow himself to believe it. Claude could have had him at any time; it is an unexpected kindness of his to pretend now.

Claude’s finger brushes against the tight-furled skin of Lorenz’s entrance, and Lorenz forgets to think. He gasps, shock and arousal mixed, not sure when or how he became nothing but a conduit of pleasure, every inch of his skin unbearably sensitive.

“I did not think,” Claude says, rubbing gentle circles that set off cascades of fire along Lorenz’s nerves, “when I got up this morning that today was going to feature you begging me to fuck you.”

 _Begging_ sounds so… Lorenz covers his face again with his free arm.

“It’s the hottest thing that has happened to me this year.” Claude takes his hand away, but before Lorenz can manage a protest Claude’s fingers slide against his stomach, gathering more salve and making him shiver _again_. “Feel free to do it again.”

Lorenz, carefully, lowers his arm. “I can’t.” His voice fails him entirely on the second word, guttering into a moan as Claude goes back to—to preparing him. “I can’t—talk like you do.” He wonders if he could if Claude made him, and has to look away to gasp for breath, unable to watch Claude’s bowed intent face for a moment.

Claude pushes a little more firmly, and the trembling ring of muscle under his thumb eases, opens, and he is—inside, a strange blunt pressure that—Lorenz had expected something different, worse, more. Claude is staring down at him, lips parted, as if Lorenz has done something incredible. Then he shakes his head a little and says, “Well, I can talk enough for us both. Still okay?”

“…Yes.” It is…Lorenz hardly wants him to _stop_ , which is surely good enough. He had just, he had thought…

“It takes a little getting used to.” Claude works his thumb a bit deeper, his salve-slick fingers splayed over the curve of Lorenz’s buttocks. “Sorry about the calluses.”

“I—I like them,” Lorenz says, distracted by the shifting pressure inside him. It is less strange now, maybe, his body growing used to the intrusion, but it… He knows it gives people pleasure ( _loud_ pleasure), and it seems terribly unfair that he should still want it so badly and not—

Claude gathers more salve and returns, this time with a finger. The stretch is less this time, even as he pushes further in. “You do, huh? I would have thought you wouldn’t want your delicate skin getting roughed up.” There is no mockery in his voice, even when he says _delicate_ , and Lorenz whimpers. Claude’s gaze sharpens, heats. “Or do you like that too?”

Lorenz nods, then shakes his head. He doesn’t—Claude could mean anything.

“I wouldn’t have worried about stubble burn on your thighs,” Claude mutters, almost to himself, and that—yes. He looks up at Lorenz and smiles at whatever dazed lust he must see on Lorenz’s face. “You like that? I can do that. Really, really not a problem here. Just give me one second, I need to try something first.”

He crooks the finger inside Lorenz, seeking, and then—this must be like getting hit by lightning, true lightning, everything gone searing white and soundless. Lorenz can’t speak, can’t do anything except lie shaking under Claude’s hands. It eases after the first shock, gentles into rolling pleasure, gathering with none of the painful edge of before. Lorenz pulls his leg tighter against his chest, trying to find the words to ask for more. His cock is dripping onto his stomach, and he has to look to be sure he hasn’t spent already.

“Goddess, look at you.” Claude sounds half-dazed himself. One of his other fingers, his thumb, _something_ presses against the skin of Lorenz’s entrance, and Lorenz wants that too, wants anything at all. “You’re gorgeous. You were made for this.”

Lorenz’s breaths are coming out almost like sobs, a high desperate wordless noise broken up with every panting inhale, but he manages, “Please.”

More salve, a second finger sliding in along the first, more pleasure burning tidal through Lorenz’s veins as Claude stretches him open, even without seeking out that spot again. Then Claude’s mouth, not on his aching cock but so close Lorenz can feel it as if it were: high on the tender skin of his inner thigh, the scrape of his stubbled cheek a sparking counterpoint to the softness of his lips and tongue. Lorenz twists his free hand in the grass to the side of the blanket and feels its roots tear.

“Good?” Claude asks, breath hot against Lorenz’s skin, fingers still easing him open.

Yes. _Yes_. No. “More,” Lorenz gasps, aflame with it, so dizzy with the sweet sting as Claude sucks a kiss hard enough to bruise into his leg that he hardly minds the loss of Claude’s fingers, though the muscles of his stomach still jump in anticipation when Claude brushes against them as he collects more salve.

Claude works the salve against his entrance again, shallow, too firm to be a tease but still not enough. Lorenz is shivering, wordless, worn thin as silk by wave after wave of desire, and he needs—

“You’re _so_ tight.” Claude’s voice is strained, even as his fingers move steadily. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Lorenz makes a faint protesting noise, and Claude’s exhale is a shaky laugh. “No, really, I might. I don’t want you to decide you hate it because I got impatient.” He tightens his other hand reassuringly on Lorenz’s thigh as he nudges a third finger against the ring of muscle.

It is…it is a lot, and still not enough. Lorenz tries to relax into the rush of it, to _make_ his body open as much as Claude wants, but the burning stretch, the strange pressure, how calm Claude is…

“Easy,” Claude says, hand going still. “Too much?”

Lorenz shakes his head urgently, not sure what it is except not that.

Claude strokes the tight skin under his thumb, another swell of pleasure that eases Lorenz’s body around his fingers. “Are you absolutely sure you want to get fucked right now? I can get you off without that. I’m having to work _not_ to get you off without that, you’re so—fuck, _look_ at you.”

Lorenz cannot be anything much to look at, sweating and disheveled and unstrung as he is, but Claude says it with so much heat in his voice that it _must_ be a compliment.

“Lorenz.”

There had been a question, before that. “Please,” Lorenz says, again; he is nothing but this now. “Please, I want…you, in—inside—”

He still cannot make himself say the rest of the words, but Claude moans in spite of that, as if Lorenz too has the gift of spinning filth to silver in the air. “You still want me to fuck you,” he says, not a question at all as he takes more salve and works that third finger into Lorenz, and Lorenz makes a horribly undignified sound. It is—so much, still, but there’s the promise of pleasure waiting as well. “And I will, okay? I’ve got you. Just relax a little more… There you go.”

Lorenz can hear his own stuttering breaths, the lost little noises escaping his throat. The air is thick with roses and salt, summer-lush, and Claude’s fingers press wide into him, and he is—he can have this, if he can just let himself take it.

“Just like that,” Claude breathes. Lorenz can feel himself melting under the words. “You have no idea how good you feel just around my fingers—I can’t wait to feel you around my cock.” He says it so easily.

Lorenz mouths, _Please_ , but he has no idea if the word has any sound to it. Claude twists his fingers inside him, and Lorenz pushes back against them, mindless with desire, and something…eases, another surrender in a battle Lorenz no longer wants to fight. He feels empty when Claude gathers more salve; this time it is smoother, with less resistance.

Claude is stroking Lorenz’s thigh with his left hand even as he continues to stretch Lorenz open with his right. How he can do two things at once, when Lorenz can barely manage to lie here and feel them, and how he can still _talk_ —well, of course he can still talk, even hoarse as his voice has gone now. “I’d like to see you ride me.” He traces one of the long lines of muscle up to Lorenz’s groin, thumb lingering where the pulse hammers against the skin. “But that’s not what you want, is it?”

It is hardly a question, and Lorenz blinks, dazed, not sure what answer Claude expects. He could… Maybe not right now, shaking himself apart as he is, but if he were less exhausted by this slow endless burn of arousal he could do that. He had not—it had never occurred to him that Claude might want that.

“You want to get fucked into the ground,” Claude says, still with that rough edge to his voice, still gently, and Lorenz’s whole body jolts with it: his hips jerking up against Claude’s hands, his arm tightening around his own leg for an anchor.

He does. He does, and he cannot bear this. He nods, desperately, his hair tangling under him with the motion, and—

“Okay.” Claude takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the excess salve off his hand. Lorenz, left unmoored, fumbles for a fold of the blanket to hold onto with his free hand while Claude yanks off his neckcloth, his sash, his black capelet; he unhooks the quilted jacket fast enough to tear thread and throws it and the gold cape together to the ground, and all Lorenz can think is _Faster_.

Claude leaves his shirt on and goes straight for the fastenings of his trousers, fumbling them as he does. Lorenz realizes with another shock of heat that Claude is hard too, not—of course he would have to be, to do this, but his jacket had hidden—the cloth of his smallclothes strains across his cock, so tightly it looks painful.

Lorenz must have made a sound, moved, done something, because Claude stops with the ties of his smallclothes in his hands. “Second thoughts?”

Absurd. Lorenz shakes his head. “Just…I never…”

The words are thick as honey in his mouth, but they do their job; Claude finishes undoing his smallclothes and shoves them, too, out of the way. “Don’t quote me on this, but it’s not _that_ big.” He smiles even as his cock stands proudly out of his linen, darkly flushed and certainly much larger than those on the pre-Imperial statuary that are Lorenz’s only other comparisons.

That is hardly what Lorenz meant. He was not looking for reassurance. “I could—”

“Take it?” Claude asks, smile sharpening into a spine-melting grin. He slings himself to his knees between Lorenz’s legs and pushes Lorenz’s thigh back up; Lorenz lets himself relax into the hold. “Goddess, I bet you could, if you let yourself.”

It seems a lot, but Lorenz…Lorenz is not opposed to whatever Claude is thinking, not when he asks it like that, as if he already knows what Lorenz wants and refuses to let him back out of it.

“Here, hang on.” Claude turns and catches the edge of his own jacket where it had fallen. “This will be a lot easier on you than having to hold yourself up.” He lets Lorenz’s leg go again for a moment, folding the jacket quickly and wrapping the gold cape around the outside. “Lift your hips for just a second, okay?”

Lorenz has to work to do it. The muscles in his legs and stomach have gone shaking and weak, liquid with desire and shuddering with its denial at the same time. Still, he is hardly helpless yet, and he _wants_ this.

The quilting is surprisingly soft under him, the silk of the cape a pleasant luxury after the rougher wool of the blanket. “Perfect,” Claude says, in that heated tone that’s both reward and spur. He gathers the last of the salve on Lorenz’s stomach, the scrape of his calluses sparking another shivering wave of pleasure, and strokes it across his own cock.

Lorenz can’t see at this angle, not properly. He wishes he could. He wants to see Claude touching himself as the scent of roses soaks into his skin. The thought staggers him, draws another of those low helpless noises from his throat.

“Almost,” Claude says. His other hand settles on—between—spreading Lorenz’s buttocks apart, letting the air run cool over his skin. Lorenz clutches the blanket tighter, and burns. Claude is _looking_ , at skin even Lorenz has never seen, and it should be…he shouldn’t care what Claude thinks; he should hate lying this open under Claude’s gaze; he certainly shouldn’t want Claude to just take him, urgently, and, and use him to exhaustion.

He closes his eyes, afraid of what he might see on Claude’s face, but he can still feel Claude move, feel the warmth of Claude’s body over him. Then there is smooth pressure at his entrance, broader than a finger. Prickling heat rolls out across Lorenz’s skin, tightening his body and shortening his breath.

It is…inflexible. Unyielding. Claude’s fingers had bent, had shifted; his cock will not. Lorenz—fears the thought. Craves it. Doesn’t know what to do.

Claude nudges his arm against Lorenz’s. “Okay?”

Lorenz manages to nod.

“You’re doing great,” Claude says, as if his voice weren’t graveled with lust, as if Lorenz cannot feel the fine tremor where their arms press together. “What I need you to do now is push back against me, okay?”

The pressure intensifies, and Lorenz does his best to obey. He can feel the ring of muscle stretching, his body struggling with this strange reversal, and then—

“Fuck,” Claude says, low and earnest, “there you go. That’s it.”

It stings, but Lorenz is already aflame, and one burn is lost in another. The head of Claude’s cock is inside him, and the world spins on. He dares to open his eyes and sees Claude braced over him, hair tumbling softly around his face, tendons standing out in his throat with how perfectly still he’s holding as he watches Lorenz.

Lorenz wants…he wants it to be good. He has no idea what to do, but he swallows and whispers, “Okay.”

Claude rocks his hips forward, so slowly, not looking away, and Lorenz can _feel_ it, feel his body opening, welcoming, even as his mind has nothing at all to offer. Claude sinks into him, and he yields, and still nothing changes: only the feeling of being filled, the tension and the tenderness both in Claude’s face, the heat blooming again under his skin just from the thought of this.

This time he nods before Claude can ask.

“Thank the Goddess,” Claude mutters. He starts moving, and Lorenz twists his hand tighter into the folds of the blanket because he can feel this too, the drag and slide of Claude’s cock inside him. Fucking him.

Lorenz moans, caught somewhere between sensation and knowledge: he is getting fucked, he likes it, _Claude_ is fucking him. He likes it.

Claude is panting for breath as hard as Lorenz is, finally. “This what you want?” Lorenz nods, undone as he is. “Or do you want it harder? Faster? Slower?”

How is Lorenz supposed to answer that? He is overfull of pleasure, strained to bursting with it, and Claude wants him to _think_? He shakes his head. “What—whatever you want.”

The smooth motion of Claude’s hips stutters. “Lorenz…”

“I want you to like it.” Lorenz can barely hear his own voice, rasping, airless, past the thunder of his heart in his ears.

Claude swears again. There’s a frantic edge to his movements, something that sparks an answering wildness in Lorenz’s blood and makes Lorenz writhe under him. “Not…a problem. I—” He breaks off sharply. “You’re so fucking tight, you have _no_ idea—are you sure I’m not hurting you?”

Lorenz nods, though he is not entirely sure he would notice if Claude were. All he can feel is the relentless urgency to come. He could, if he were willing to relax his grip on the blanket or his leg to get a hand over to his own cock, if he were willing for this to end.

“And look at you.” Claude brushes a lock of hair off of Lorenz’s face, sweaty as it must be. His thumb lingers on Lorenz’s cheekbone almost tenderly, and Lorenz has to close his eyes against the sharp prickle of tears. “Gorgeous. Trusting me with this.”

Panic surges under the arousal, and Lorenz shakes his head. This is too much, too deep a cut. He wants so badly to believe this is real: more than pity and an attempt to help. He must not. He cannot forget that once this is over they will go back to opposing each other across the Roundtable while Claude flirts with everyone and brings a lucky few back to his room.

“Hey,” Claude says, hand curving firm around Lorenz’s jaw. It’s the only movement he makes; Lorenz can feel his cock inside, imagines he can trace the shape of it within him now that Claude is holding still. “You went somewhere. Still okay?”

What a question. Lorenz isn’t quite sure if the shuddering sound he makes as he nods is a laugh or a sob, but he nods again for good measure. “Please don’t stop.”

Claude tightens his hand reassuringly, then takes it away. Lorenz might have felt turned loose, but Claude’s body is solid over his, his skin warm where it presses against Lorenz’s. “Okay. Let me just—” He tugs at Lorenz’s knee, folding him even tighter on himself. Lorenz is vaguely aware of the strain along the backs of his legs, but he bends under Claude’s hand without complaint. “Try this.”

The first two thrusts are more of the same, still stoking his arousal higher without relief. The third turns the world to fire. Lorenz claws at the ground, reeling, and when Claude does it again he breaks like a dam, everything swept away in a torrent of pleasure.

It takes a moment for Lorenz’s senses to return to him. The relief is unbearable: almost better than the climax itself, explosive as it was. The tangling pain of the scornflower is gone, the—he had forgotten, completely forgotten, to even fear what might happen if he couldn’t find release.

Claude is still hard, and still inside him, though he’s stopped moving again. Lorenz blinks a few times, struggling to make his eyes focus, and tries not to think about how damp his lashes feel against his cheeks. He wants to say, _You don’t have to stop_ , but he is more than a little afraid of how his voice will sound, how desperate a, a simple statement of fact might come out. That he _wants_ to reciprocate is mere convenience. It would surely be rude to refuse Claude now.

He can feel something thicker than sweat cooling on his chest, and cringes. What a mess he is: shivering, speechless, covered in his own spend.

“Lorenz?” Claude’s voice is tight but impossibly still gentle, strained as it is, patient as he has been.

Lorenz’s limbs feel weighted, even as he himself is almost floating, but he makes himself hook one leg around Claude, over the dip of his spine, feeling the firm swell of muscle below.

“It’s…might hurt,” Claude says, finally without some grand fluid oration. Lorenz feels a rush of satisfaction softer than he had ever thought he would, in all the years and moments he’d wanted something like this. A failure of imagination, to never even consider that he might leave Claude half-speechless thanks to something as primal as this. “If it’s too much—”

“I am perfectly capable of telling you to stop,” Lorenz says, or tries to; it comes out slurred and sleepy, some of the syllables gone entirely and the rest missing their crisp edges. It sounds much fonder than he had intended without that crispness.

Claude exhales sharply, almost a moan. “Okay.”

It is too much, probably; it hurts a little, a sweet, shivering pain, as Lorenz’s exhausted nerves spark again. There’s something obscenely decadent about lying here like this and letting Claude fuck him, past any need of his own, that is… Lorenz feels his cock try to stir again, with another thrill of _too-much_ as it does, at the thought.

The thought, or maybe the sounds Claude makes, the way his face has gone slack with pleasure, the hot slide of his cock inside Lorenz’s sensitized body. Lorenz had barely registered the details before; now he tucks them away in his memory.

Claude comes with a cry that he makes no attempt to stifle. Lorenz can _feel_ it. Claude pulses inside him, and Lorenz shivers helplessly, his whole body twinging with arousal it isn’t ready for. He had not thought to brace for Claude slumping against him, but much as he would like to pretend, it is hardly Claude’s weight that leaves him breathless.

Claude’s lips are against his shoulder. It is not a kiss; Lorenz had told Claude not to kiss him.

Lorenz lifts one hand, slow as if he moves through deep water, and pushes the hair back out of Claude’s face. It is satin-smooth, but warmer than silk ever was, and Claude sighs and then pushes himself up again. His shirt is—dear Goddess. Lorenz lowers his hand to his own chest, finding a sticky patch not far below his collarbone, and feels a blush scald his skin.

“Long dry spell, huh,” Claude says, seeming entirely unfazed again. He licks two of his fingers (Lorenz tries, and fails, not to notice the wet shine of his tongue) and rubs at the, the residue before shaking his head. “You’ll probably need water to do it well, unless you want me to just lick it off.”

Lorenz is too surprised by the idea and the sharp-edged burn of longing to form words at first, and this time his body fails to betray him with a sound.

“This is going to feel weird, sorry,” Claude says, and pulls slowly out. Lorenz had felt Claude’s cock softening inside him, but he had not prepared for it to be _gone_ , and he grimaces at the loss and then at the feeling of Claude’s spend trickling out as well.

Claude is staring. He shakes his head a little and tucks himself back into his clothes. Except for the stains on his shirt he looks wholly untouched by this. “Water,” he says more firmly, and picks up his discarded neckcloth before he stands.

Lorenz, left lying stark naked on a blanket, covered in hand salve and worse, feels the chill of the air sink through to his bones. Long shadows are beginning to fall across the clearing, and the light is darkening from gold to blue.

Away from Claude’s ruinous charm the enormity of everything he has done dawns slowly, but it does dawn. He had—and then he—he had _begged_ , he had said _please_ again and again as if it were the only word left in the world—he had told Claude not to stop once the scornflower was safely out of his system, the _only_ reason they had done this at all—

Lorenz rolls over, cringing at the slippery mess now sliding between his thighs. A simple Fire spell might deal with the bush, but the winter has been a dry one and starting a wildfire is in no one’s best interests, and its roots might be left intact to spread new growth in a year or two. Instead he visualizes the circles for a spell that will go deeper but less broad and calls down Agnea’s Arrow from the sky.

For a moment the skeletal shape of the scornflower bush hangs in the air, glowing blue-white, and then it collapses into ash.

The rest of the war, and the Roundtable after if they win, stretch out in front of him, full of meetings and false smiles and the dragging fear that nothing he does will be enough to hide…this. Will people expect him to favor Riegan in intra-Alliance matters, or doubt his command? Can he trust _himself_ to make any hard but needed decisions, when he has spent so long trying to master his own baser impulses, only to fail at the first real test?

And what will Claude expect now? Lorenz has a hazy, mortifying reflection of insisting the only thing he wanted out of their…copulation was Claude’s pleasure. They are responsible for opposing interests; Lorenz has had a great deal of practice at separating fancies from policy, but…

Lorenz drags himself into a seated position, feeling much too exposed lying as he is, and buries his face in his hands. Claude will probably not gossip, at least, unless he has made a habit of saving all his more salacious conversation for Lorenz’s absence, but he will certainly _know_. No act, no discipline, no amount of caution will be enough to protect Lorenz from that.

“Wow,” Claude says.

Lorenz looks up sharply. Claude is carrying Lorenz’s pack looped over one shoulder, and his own neckcloth, dripping wet, in the other hand. He has changed his shirt, and not bothered to fasten the new one all the way; it is open at the neck, baring the hollow of his throat and a sliver of his chest.

Fortunately, he is looking past Lorenz, and it can be hoped he missed Lorenz’s betraying gaze. Lorenz, furiously, turns to see what has Claude’s attention.

Agnea’s Arrow destroys cleanly. No smoke rises from where the scornflower bush once was.

“I guess it’s safe to spend the night here after all,” Claude says. “No half measures, huh.” He drops Lorenz’s pack with a soft grunt, and Lorenz bites the inside of his lip. “Here—it’s freezing cold, sorry.”

Lorenz turns back around and takes the wet cloth. It _is_ cold, the mountain-born water of the stream beyond the clearing better-suited to the Pegasus Moon than the air is, but that hardly matters. He wipes his torso clean, unable to help yet another blush at how prodigal his release was, and then hesitates. It is not as if Claude has not _seen_ — He swallows. “If I could have a moment’s privacy…”

Claude blinks, then turns away. “Sorry.”

Even warmed a little by Lorenz’s hands and chest, the cloth is shockingly cold against the delicate skin he has to clean next. When he has finished, he swallows again, then clears his throat when that does nothing to summon words. “I…appreciate it. What, ah, where should I…”

Claude’s cape is soiled too, Lorenz realizes belatedly as he looks down at the crumpled fabric. It will be harder to clean than the neckcloth, which is plain bleached linen. The cape is a heavy silk taffeta; House Riegan’s distinctive gold is nearly as difficult a color to dye as Gloucester purple. One of the late dukes had complained about the difficulties in importing mulberry heartwood during the Dagda and Brigid War, though those trade routes have opened again over the last decade. Still.

Lorenz fights the urge to make either an apology or an excuse. He was not the one to put the cape under himself, nor, indeed, the one who—the one responsible for any stains.

“Hang on. Can you move off—oh,” Claude says, turning around again, “you already did.” He bends to pick up his jacket and unpins the cape from the shoulder with barely a sigh for its condition. It slides to the ground like a pool of the fading sunlight. Claude shrugs his jacket back on, then takes the neckcloth and bundles it and his discarded handkerchief into the cape.

Lorenz leans over and retrieves his pack. He still has several changes of linen, and he has little wish to put the same clothes he wore all day on again.

“Sorry I wasn’t able to get your demon of a horse.” Claude’s voice is conversational. It is…generous of him to pretend nothing has happened, Lorenz thinks bitterly, attempting to pull his smallclothes on without standing up and exposing himself further. “He’s not very fond of running water, is he.”

That, at least, is easy to answer. “Not terribly, but of course a sufficiently disciplined rider is capable of directing him. Naturally…” The insult withers and blows away. Lorenz tries again. “ _I_ have never been unable to manage him.”

He dares a glance at Claude, who actually looks thrown off-balance. “O…kay. Right. Never said you were.”

Lorenz steps back into his trousers. “It hardly matters. I can go get him.” A new shirt, his boots, most probably his coat: it must be getting close to the time for the others to arrive, and he can only be grateful that the Great Bridge of Myrddin is far enough away that they would not have returned sooner. Leonie would doubtless laugh at the idea of Lorenz requiring something over his shirt, but Marianne has more conventional expectations.

“I—”

Lorenz feels just a thread of the tension ease out of his shoulders as he pulls his shirt on, properly covered again. “Surely you don’t intend to call my equestrian skills into question.” He doesn’t bother to try to keep the bite out of the words. _Does_ Claude? It is all very well to claim a person’s desires are nothing to be ashamed of, but in practice—

Claude physically steps in front of him, though still a few paces away. “Lorenz, what the hell.”

Well. Lorenz had neglected to thank Claude earlier; they might as well talk about it, hopefully for the last time. “I am not ungrateful for your…assistance earlier, but if you are under the impression that the debt of gratitude I owe you or the, the…” The words stick in his throat, worse even than admitting that, yes, this has been more than a simple favor, and must be repaid.

 _Debt of gratitude_ , Claude mouths, looking taken aback. “Lorenz—”

“Or anything I—said,” Lorenz forces himself to say, “while I was…under the influence of that damnable plant—”

All the life drains out of Claude’s face. “Did I—I’m sorry, I didn’t actually have any firsthand—did I do something you didn’t want?”

“Of course not,” Lorenz says, too dismayed by Claude’s expression to have room left for shame. Claude eases, visibly, no longer a portrait of horror carved in stone but a man again. “That is _exactly_ my point; I wish to be perfectly clear that what I said,” and what he hadn’t said, the demands he had made with his body when his words ran dry, “should by no means be taken as an excuse, personally or politically, to—”

Claude closes his mouth, then opens it again to speak, or more precisely to interrupt. “Are you _telling me to respect you in the morning_?”

“This is not a _joke_ ,” Lorenz says. He is abruptly furious. “I am well aware what you must think of me now, and given that it is hardly a secret that you disliked me even before that, I am also not insensible to your generosity just now, but I will not allow you to—”

“Wait,” Claude says, stunned, “wait. Stop. _What_?”

Lorenz is determined to finish before the rage goes and leaves him blushing and speechless again. “I will not _allow_ you to treat me as if I’m incompetent because you—you know I—”

“ _Lorenz_.” Claude’s hands tighten at his sides, then relax with deliberate effort. “ _Please_ stop. I’m not treating you as if you’re incompetent, I’m treating you as if you have had a very long, unexpectedly bad, very tiring day. I kind of feel like I should be offended that you think I’d think less of you because I fucked you, or you liked it, or whatever exactly it is that I ‘know’ now.”

Put that way it sounds absurd. Lorenz wouldn’t dare even suggest that in the hearing of…well, quite a few people in their army. “No, I was—”

“But I think your problem is that you think that about _yourself_.” Claude’s lips flatten briefly into a hard line. He looks to be about to say something else, then seems to think better of it. “You hate that horse. You’ve always hated that horse. I didn’t mean to insult or belittle you by pointing that out, and I didn’t do you a fucking _favor_.”

 _Hate_ is a very strong word for Lorenz’s feelings about Thunder. Also— “Pardon?”

“I don’t dislike you,” Claude says tiredly. “Up until some point within the last hour, and correct me if I’m wrong here, I thought you disliked _me_.”

It is far too late for panic; Lorenz crushes it back down. “Very well, then, your—”

“I know you’re smarter than this.” Claude tips his head back, imploring, then straightens again. “Except you’re really not, huh.” Lorenz draws a breath in sharply to object, but Claude continues, “Look, I would rather not have done it that way, but it wasn’t some kind of charity on my part.”

“That…way?” Lorenz repeats faintly, the breath he’d taken frozen in his lungs.

Claude gestures at Lorenz’s feet, where his blanket is still crumpled on the ground. “I thought if you seemed like you might be interested we’d…I don’t know, hang out, have tea, do all that really boring paperwork together—”

“You only pretend to dislike the paperwork,” Lorenz says, his mouth moving almost without conscious direction. It is the only thing he can think to say that makes sense. Spending time together, sharing tea, working in unison to address the concerns of the Alliance… It sounds, well, pleasant. More than that, Claude says it as if—no.

“See, you figured _that_ out.” Claude’s smile is tilted: rueful and on edge at the same time. “I’m getting sloppy, I guess.”

Lorenz looks away from that smile, which tugs dangerously at the space between his ribs. Ah, the blanket. He picks it up and shakes it out. A few broken wisps of winter-gold grass fall to the ground again. “You care a great deal for the Alliance. Only a fool could fail to notice that.” He had of course been such a fool once himself, and waits to see how Claude will say so as he folds the blanket in half, then in half again, so it is small enough to fold easily over his arm.

“Yeah, but—” Claude breaks off with a shake of his head. “Lorenz, are you shutting me down or just not listening to me?”

What. “What?” Anticipation prickles sharply across Lorenz’s skin, leaving his face and hands stinging as if he’d just gone from snowstorm to hearthside without even time to catch his breath.

“I care about _you_ ,” Claude says, and oh, it’s the Roundtable voice again, clear and unyielding, and also— _what_. Lorenz tightens his grip on the blanket, the thick wool reassuringly solid against his fingers. “So yeah,” Claude goes on less intensely, as if everything he is saying makes logical sense, “I figured I’d…woo you, I guess you’d probably call it.” Another tilted smile, this one pulled so taut it comes halfway to a grimace. There’s nothing charming about it, except that it is Claude’s. “If it seemed like you wanted. Anyway, Rose of Bassarid was not something I was expecting.”

Lorenz is reeling more from this than from anything Claude has done, lightheaded with astonishment. There are…words to say about this, surely. He should have a response, but this is—he had not—he knows how to express his interest to a marriageable lady of noble birth, to someone _eligible_ , but not—

“Lorenz?”

“I…am sorry I told you not to kiss me,” Lorenz blurts. He is not a devout man, but he spares a moment’s thought for a sincere thanks to the goddess that it is that, and not _I would have refused to let you court me because I would have assumed it was, at best, a prank_ , which launched itself out of the chaotic swirl of his thoughts and into speech. “Before. I misunderstood your intent.”

Claude’s smile this time is softer, steady instead of tilting. “Yeah?”

This time all Lorenz feels is a giddy effervescence, a fluttering so sweet he hardly remembers all the reasons this could be a disaster. He nods. “I…would like to correct that. If you are amenable.”

“‘Amenable.’” Claude shakes his head with a laugh hardly more than a breath, his look warm even in the fading light. “If that’s how you want to put it. C’mere.”

He holds out a hand.

Lorenz takes a hesitant step forward. Absurd to feel uncertain about a kiss, when they have—when Claude has already—bent him in half and ridden him into the ground, he can’t help remembering with scalding vividness. He almost puts a hand to his cheek to check for a blush, but manages not to; it will only draw attention.

Still, at the time he had been quite indubitably not at his best. There had been extenuating circumstances in plenty. He had not had to worry about his…performance, when it had been a practical necessity. He had wanted Claude to enjoy it, yes, but not out of any hope that he would want to _repeat_ it; it had been Lorenz’s own wish to be pleasing, and a little bit of guilt over those same extenuating circumstances: since Claude would not have chosen it, at least he should enjoy it, if possible.

But this…this is a choice.

“I’ve never,” Lorenz says, before Claude can mistake his nerves for reluctance. This is worse than embarrassing; he is fully twenty-four years old, and has spent years attempting to court a variety of the most eligible ladies in Fódlan. “I…am not sure what to do.”

Claude is clearly surprised, by the lift of his brows and the slight parting of his lips, but all he says, after a moment long enough that Lorenz’s heart speeds to a gallop, is, “Okay, well, you start by coming over here.”

It is easier now. Another step closes the distance between them. “And then?” Lorenz asks with a little more confidence. He does not quite manage flirtatious, even to his own ears, but perhaps someday.

Claude studies him for a moment. In this light, even without being shadowed by his astonishing lashes, his eyes are an ambiguous pine; Lorenz realizes he will _have_ the opportunity to name their true shade of green in future. He might find himself luckier yet, and it prove to be something easier to rhyme than _emerald_.

“Right,” Claude says, as if finishing a debate, and pulls Lorenz’s head down to his. His hands are warm, the calluses an unmistakable pressure at the back of Lorenz’s neck.

Lorenz lets himself be pulled. He puts a hand on Claude’s shoulder to steady himself, breathless again. It seems impossibly easy, now, when they are this close; as if a kiss really is a simple thing. If he is to lose all caution and sense of self-preservation at Claude’s lightest touch he is…probably not in any more trouble than he has been the last six years, if he is fully honest with himself.

Claude’s breath is even warmer than his hands, soft against Lorenz’s mouth. “Just relax,” he says. They are not quite touching; Lorenz’s skin tingles with the promise outheld. “I’ll show you.” He does; his mouth fits easily against Lorenz’s, a soft press of lips that has Lorenz melting.

It _is_ easy, and Lorenz drops the blanket to rest his other hand on Claude’s waist as he leans closer, ready for whatever else—

On the other side of the stream, Thunder whinnies sharply, and a branch cracks.

Lorenz jumps back, scrambling for his coat. Goddess have mercy, his boots are still lying on the ground, which means he is either about to appear in mixed company barefoot or about to engage in combat in the same way, depending on whether the others ran into any trouble.

Claude snatches up the bundle of soiled garments and pushes it into the open end of Lorenz’s pack, running his fingers through his hair even as he straightens up. Really, Claude’s hair always looks attractively disheveled, and this has not changed it for either the better or the worse, but Lorenz appreciates the thought.

—Hm. For all his numerous flirtations, Claude is rarely _public_ about any of his affairs. Perhaps this frenzied caution is as much for his own sake as for Lorenz’s. Lorenz will ask, when they have a moment.

If they have a moment.

The chittering call of an Edmund bluefinch floats through the air—at this distance it is more likely to be Leonie than Marianne, but the meaning is the same: their friends have returned safely. There are certainly no Edmund bluefinches this far south, nor would the soldiers of Myrddin or Adrestia be familiar with them.

Lorenz, looking around for any other incriminating evidence, spots his blanket and hurriedly returns that to his pack as well.

“Okay?” Claude asks softly.

“Entirely,” Lorenz says, lying only a little. “You?”

Claude shrugs. “Well, I’m not bored.”

“Were you planning on leaving your horse tied up over there all night?” Leonie asks, appearing through the trees. Balthus and Marianne are just a few horse-lengths behind her, Balthus bringing up the rear. “I don’t think he’s going to be happy about that.”

“Ah, no,” Lorenz says, desperately trying to think. “I was…”

“Just on his way back to get him,” Claude says smoothly. “One of us will get a fire started so you can dry off when you get back.”

Well, it is true his boots are good leather, and would not be improved by a prolonged soaking. With a nod of gratitude for the excuse, Lorenz starts toward the stream, trying not to wonder what the others are saying about him in his absence. Does he look… His hair, probably, is in considerably worse state than Claude’s, and he had not even thought to check it. He swallows down panic and picks his way carefully down to the waterside. It is too dark, and the water too quick-moving, to study his reflection.

There are almost enough rocks to serve as a path, uncomfortably chill and slick with moss. Carefully, Lorenz makes his way across and up the far side, where Thunder has indeed become impatient. Mastering the temperamental stallion is always a test not only of his will but of his command, and he is afraid of failing it as he has not been since the first week that his father had gifted Thunder to him.

Well. He can hardly stand here all night. He unties the lead rope from the oak and says, “Come.” Thunder moves down to the stream easily enough, but stops at the water’s edge.

Lorenz does not sigh. He cues Thunder again, more firmly.

Thunder steps into the water, then backs up.

Perhaps Lorenz should have taken Leonie’s advice back at Garreg Mach, and selected a less challenging mount for the journey. He could be sitting by the fire right now, assuming there is a fire, or lending his magical skills if the others are struggling, instead of arguing with a horse who is afraid of running water. What _are_ the others saying?

“I have an apple,” Marianne says softly from the other bank. Lorenz startles, which makes Thunder sidestep away from the easy crossing. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she says. “I didn’t mean to frighten you…”

“Think nothing of it,” Lorenz says, turning to face her. “The fault was entirely mine.”

Marianne steps onto one of the nearer stones. “Wouldn’t you like a piece of apple, Thunder?” she asks gently. “It’s very sweet and good, but you must come over to this side of the river to have any.”

Thunder’s ears tilt inquisitively in Marianne’s direction. Lorenz gives the lead rope another gentle tug. “Come,” he says again, and this time after another false start Thunder actually steps into the stream.

Two steps in Thunder stops and bends to lip cautiously at the water, which leaves Lorenz balancing on a rock. A ripple rises and breaks over his feet, just as he’d feared would happen; the water of the stream is considerably colder here than it had been on Claude’s neckcloth, a numbing shock that races up his shins.

“I see that you’re thirsty,” Marianne says, holding her hand out, palm flat and a wedge of apple resting on it. “But I think you can drink on this side of the stream just as well as in the middle of it, don’t you?” She takes a careful step backward, ankles wobbling a little.

Lorenz has a brief, horrified vision of having to choose between dropping Thunder’s lead rope in the middle of a stream or leaving Marianne where she fell. His shoulders go lax with relief when she steadies herself.

Thunder lifts his head and sniffs the air. Lorenz tugs at the lead rope again, and this time Thunder follows, one grudging step at a time until they make it clear across the stream. Marianne extends the apple, and Thunder takes it from her palm.

“Thank you,” Lorenz says. He can barely feel his toes; it has still gone considerably better than he had expected, even with Marianne’s help.

She nods.

Uphill is easy; Lorenz ties Thunder again with the other three horses when they reach the edge of the clearing. The blue of the sky is sinking around the moon, deepening toward indigo. Someone, most likely Leonie, has gotten a clear-burning fire going. She and Balthus are arguing cheerfully about whose turn it is to hunt dinner.

Lorenz retrieves his blanket and a clean pair of stockings from his pack, dries his feet on the edge of the blanket, and puts stockings and boots on. It is deeply reassuring to be fully-dressed again.

The firelight catches brilliantly on the gold gleam of Claude’s cape: Riegan gold, vivid and unmistakable, especially against the utilitarian white and Gloucester purple of the rest of Lorenz’s things. Lorenz frantically ties his pack closed again. He needs—he needs to _think_. He has no time to think.

“Welcome back,” Claude says, as Lorenz brings his blanket and his thawing toes to the fireside. Marianne has already settled between Claude and Leonie; there is space to either side of Balthus, across from Claude or next to him, and Lorenz hesitates, not sure what he would have done this morning and equally unsure what he wishes to do tonight.

Leonie looks up at him, rolls her eyes, and pats the ground next to her. Lorenz spreads his blanket out with the damp end toward the fire and sits obediently.

Claude is leaning back on his hands, gilded by the firelight. He has still not replaced his neckcloth, and shadows dance in the hollow of his throat. “All right, now that we’re all here—Leonie, mission report.”

“Worked pretty much the way you came up with it,” Leonie says with a shrug. “I said I wanted to visit my dear old uncle to be sure he’d come through the winter okay, they said I couldn’t cross without papers. I said”—her accent thickens, the vowels flattening against her palate—“well, if they were from around Bergliez, maybe they knew him?”

Balthus snorts.

Leonie laughs, too, and says in the voice Lorenz is used to, “Yeah, I know.”

“And they said they weren’t?” Claude asks, a pleased smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“One of them said…” Leonie pauses; when Lorenz turns to look at her she has closed her eyes. “‘This is the closest I’ve even been to Bergliez. I’m a Myrddin man.’”

Claude whistles.

Balthus says, “He was pretty taken with her.”

“Please,” Leonie says dismissively.

“And none of the others were worried?” Claude leans forward, the light shifting across his face: gold, and bronze, and that one falling lock of hair brightened almost to mahogany.

Lorenz forces himself to look away.

Leonie shrugs. “What, that some dumb backcountry commoner who thought everyone from Bergliez knew each other was going to realize it mattered?”

“Does that not bother you?” Lorenz asks, not realizing he intends to until he’s said it.

“What?” She frowns at him in puzzlement.

He fumbles for the correct words. “You are…highly competent, intelligent. A valuable asset to our forces.” Her lips part as if to argue, or to thank him; with Leonie he is never quite sure. “To be dismissed and insulted like that…”

“No…” Leonie says slowly, her frown deepening, “I don’t really have a problem with getting underestimated by the guys who are helping Lord Myrddin sell us out to the Empire. But thank you?”

She makes dismissing the opinion of others sound very simple, and Lorenz…finds that that concern is on his mind. Of course, Leonie is a commoner, and would not have been involved in this ruse at all if she had had political influence to wield; _needing_ to care about others’ judgment of her is not a burden she needs to bear. Still, it is… He envies her, rather.

And yet…and yet… _does_ he care what Acheron von Myrddin thinks of him? Certainly not. The Weathervane has been a disgrace to the Leicester Alliance for years before he turned traitor. Lord of one of the lesser Houses of the Alliance or no, Acheron’s approval is nothing for Lorenz to seek either.

“Hey.” Leonie reaches out and stops with her hand short of Lorenz’s knee. “Are you okay?”

Lorenz blinks and straightens. “Fine,” he says. “My apologies. I was considering…a personal matter.”

“Does this ‘personal matter’ have anything to do with why you took your boots off to go wading in a stream under the Pegasus Moon?” Balthus asks.

Lorenz’s blood turns to ice. Leonie just looks curious, but Marianne’s eyes are widening. He does not dare look at Claude; he makes himself turn, slowly, coolly, to Balthus. “Certainly not,” he says.

“’cause if it did, nobody here would care,” Balthus says.

“Or back at Garreg Mach,” Leonie contributes, which means she, too, had suspected it. The boots had, perhaps, been an error, though if he had neglected to don his coat that would have been worse, and he doubts that even then he could have gotten his boots on in time. Or his hair? He nearly lifts a hand to check it, but that will only draw the very attention he wishes to avoid.

Claude says, “Well, this is all very interesting, but—”

“I hope you don’t think…” Marianne’s voice is even fainter than it was when Lorenz first met her, but it silences Claude anyway. She looks at Lorenz and takes a deep breath. “I’m not sure exactly what… But I hope you know that I would like you to be happy.” Her gaze skips around the circle. “B—all of you.”

It is an astonishingly gentle sentiment from Margrave Edmund’s heir, though certainly not astonishing when Lorenz considers that that heir is Marianne.

“We’d like you to be happy too, Marianne,” Claude says. “Right?”

“Definitely,” Leonie says.

Lorenz says, “Of course,” but half his attention is already on calculations he would not have expected to have a chance to make, and he misses more than the rumble of Balthus’s response. Hilda adores Claude, and if Lorenz does not flatter himself she holds him in high esteem as well; while she is not House Goneril’s heir, Lord Holst respects her judgment implicitly. Lysithea is openly contemptuous of political maneuverings, and she is House Ordelia’s only heir. If for any reason House Ordelia’s prominence declines, though Lorenz is not yet willing to accept that as a certainty, House Daphnel would likely ascend again, and House Daphnel is a staunch ally of House Riegan’s.

His father…is another matter, as are many of the lesser houses, for not everyone can be dismissed as easily as the Weathervane. There will certainly be significant questions still to be settled if this is to be a—serious arrangement of any kind. Still, the idea that those questions could even be raised at all…

He looks at Claude, uncertain of what he should say. It would be gratifying to have their friends’ approval, and he cannot deny that it would be pleasant to share tea in the gardens and sit next to each other at the next musical performance Dorothea cobbles together, and other such romantic things, weather and war permitting. Still, he has no idea how he fits into Claude’s plans, or if he does at all. The political considerations are not trivial, and they must be different for Claude as the leader of the Alliance than for Lorenz himself.

Claude notices his look after just a moment and raises one eyebrow.

Lorenz lacks the gift of communicating in silence, but he attempts an inquisitive shrug obvious enough to be seen by Claude while subtle enough to be missed by the other three. From the smile Claude bites back, Lorenz doubts the attempt was as successful as he had hoped.

But then Claude nods, and Lorenz cannot tell if the thrill he feels is terror or excitement. Either way, it will hardly improve with waiting. “Your well-wishes are…not misplaced,” he says past the tightness of his throat.

“Well, good,” Leonie says. This time she does touch him, a quick, reassuring squeeze of his knee.

Marianne smiles, the sweetness of it lingering in the air. Balthus says, “Good thing we didn’t lose them before you needed them.”

“Thanks,” Claude says, not quite as dryly as Lorenz suspects he meant to.

Balthus stands up and gives Claude a clap on the shoulder. “And on that note, here’s hoping I can find some fish.”

Lorenz eyes the empty space on that side of the fire. Claude’s hand, behind him, is half in shadow, the fingers splayed out to help him keep his balance. It would be very easy to—he starts to check himself, to avert his gaze, and then remembers there is no need. He can look; Claude welcomes it, and it is not a secret from their audience.

He _could_ go sit next to Claude. Their fingertips _could_ touch, at the edge of the firelight.

Claude sits up properly and curls his fingers, beckoning.

“If you get too mushy I’m dumping a bucket of water on you,” Leonie says, but her voice is affectionate and when Lorenz dares to look at her she’s smiling faintly.

“Me?” Claude asks, putting his hand to his heart. “I would never. Get _over_ here, Lorenz, do you want Balthus’s sacrifice to be in vain?”

“He is fishing,” Lorenz objects, even as he gets up and moves. “Hardly a sacrifice.”

Leonie says, “I hear the water’s pretty cold.”

“It is definitely cold,” Claude says with a shiver. Lorenz considers carefully and sits down at what should be a reasonable and proper distance, then yields to Claude’s exasperated look and moves a good two handspans closer.

Their fingers do touch, at the edge of the firelight. Well, and their hands, also. After a while Lorenz even manages to think past the sparkling warmth radiating up his arm and through his whole body and join in the conversation, entirely as if it is normal, or could be normal.

And, perhaps, it can.

**Author's Note:**

> From the same poem that gave the fic its title:  
>  _By the hunger of change and emotion,  
>  By the thirst of unbearable things,  
>  By despair, the twin-born of devotion,  
>  By the pleasure that winces and stings,  
>  The delight that consumes the desire,  
>  The desire that outruns the delight_
> 
> On to the rest of the acknowledgements. My Lorenz voice owes some unspecified amount to [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/readythefanons/profile)[**readythefanons**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/readythefanons/)’s excellent take(s) on him (also, Leonie birdwatching).
> 
> Acheron doesn’t have a last name/territory in canon, so I figured that “von Myrddin” was going to be the least confusing option. Nalbin plays on “Alba” (as in Albany), while the lordship (barony? who knows) of Kimarc is shortened from the name of one of the legendary kings of Britain, taken like most of the rest of the Leicester Alliance from the _Historia regum Britanniae_. I based the climate of Myrddin as seen here loosely off that of Provence. Daffodils and glory-of-the-snow (the starry blue flowers) should be able to bloom in February, I think. The travel times in this fic flatly do not work, but this is the game where you can pop over to Brigid and back on a single Saturday so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> “Bassarid” is an alternate name for “maenad”—it’s thematically apt; there’s a classical vibe to that part of the world in general (Acheron, Lysithea, the assorted Roman influence on Adrestia); and the Dionysian connection further delights me because I’m still not over the implications of the Hero’s Relic of Gloucester, which Lorenz will never have any use for if not recruited, being called [Thyrsus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thyrsus#Symbolism).
> 
> Wax-and-oil salves exist and are easy and fun to make (there are lots of recipes online to get you started), but I have only ever used them externally and make no recommendation re: using them internally. If yours is scented with essential oil _absolutely do not_ use it internally. However, roses in several other forms have been consumed, both as a flavoring and in medicine, for centuries.
> 
> I don’t know what Lorenz’s post-skip default outfit is doing. I think it’s a cuirass etc. over a gambeson which is for some reason 1) dyed 1a) a vivid and probably-expensive color and 2) cut like a tailcoat? On top of…regular trousers? Every FE3H armor makes my head hurt as I try to get it off its wearer but this takes the new prize. The details of gambeson stripping are new to me; fastening detail courtesy of [the reenactor on the left here](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Gambeson#/media/File:2017-07-08_16-02-04_reconst-histo-belfort.jpg).
> 
> Dyer’s mulberry, or fustic ([without iron exposure, which greys it](https://botanicalcolors.com/shop/natural-dye-extracts/fustic-liquid-extract/)), is my best period guess for the extremely vivid yellow that Claude wears. I can’t find anything confirming that it _isn’t_ the color of the Leicester Alliance because it’s the color of the head of the Alliance’s house, and it makes no sense for House Riegan not to have a color, so. (House Gloucester’s purple is probably [overdyed](https://isabellawhitworth.com/2015/01/23/a-purple-pursuit/).)
> 
> I still was never a horse girl, so thanks to the internet for help with [leading horses](https://www.wikihow.com/Lead-a-Horse) and [crossing water with (more cooperative) horses](https://www.equisearch.com/articles/eqwaters702). (Trying to figure out how wide the stream was led me down the rabbithole of the 1900 Olympics and the Equestrian Long Jump, but the short answer is, yes, it’s this wide.)


End file.
